PONY 
TRACKS 


WRITTEN    AND 
ILLUSTRATED  BY 

FREDERIC    REMINGTON 


NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

1898 


VlBIU^; 

OFTHE 

UNlVERs/ry 


OF 


# 

v 


Copyright,  1895,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

All  rights  reserved. 


THIS   BOOK   IS   DEDICATED   TO   THE   FELLOWS    WHO 
RODE   THE   PONIES  THAT   MADE  THE  TRACKS 

BY  THE  AUTHOR 


217186 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

CHASING  A   MAJOR-GENERAL I 

LIEUTENANT   CASEY'S   LAST   SCOUT 22 

THE  SIOUX  OUTBREAK   IN   SOUTH   DAKOTA 49 

AN  OUTPOST  OF  CIVILIZATION 58 

A   RODEO  AT  LOS  OJOS 79 

IN  THE  SIERRA   MADRE  WITH  THE  PUNCHERS 109 

BLACK   WATER  AND   SHALLOWS „      .      .      .  131 

COACHING  IN  CHIHUAHUA 149 

STUBBLE   AND   SLOUGH   IN   DAKOTA 162 

POLICING  THE  YELLOWSTONE 1 74 

A   MODEL   SQUADRON 193 

THE   AFFAIR  OF  THE  — TH    OF  JULY 206 

THE   COLONEL   OF   THE   FIRST   CYCLE   INFANTRY 222 

A   MERRY   CHRISTMAS   IN   A   SIBLEY   TEPEE 238 

BEAR-CHASING  IN  THE   ROCKY   MOUNTAINS 244 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

THE  LAST  STAND  . Frontispiece 

general  miles  and  his  escort 3 

the  supply  train ,     ,    ,     .     .  9 

united  states  cavalry  in  winter  rig 13 

united  states  infantry  in  winter  rig  ...,,....  17 

chis-chis-chash  scout  on  the  flanks 25 

"two  ghosts  i  saw" ,     ,     .     .     .  31 

watching  the  dust  of  the  hostiles  .     , 35 

the  hotchkiss  gun 39 

a  run  to  the  scout  camp ,     .  45 

in  the  trenches '. 51 

the  advance  guard— a  military  sacrifice     .,,.,,.  55 

the  hacienda  san  jose  de  bavicora  . 59 

el  patron .,.,...  63 

the  administrador  of  san  jose  de  bavicora 67 

a  hair-cut  a  la  puncher 71 

the  music  at  the  "  baile  " 75 

COMING  TO   THEtRODEO 8l 

WAVING   SERAPE  TO   DRIVE   CATTLE 85 

TAILING   A   BULL 89 

JOHNNIE  BELL   OF   LOS   OJOS 93 

WILLIAM   IN   ACTION 97 

MOUNTING  A   WILD   ONE IOI 

A  MODERN   SANCHO   PANZA .      .  IO5 

MY   COMRADE    .....  IIO 

ON  THE   MOUNTAINS Ill 

THE   CASA   CAMADRA 115 

SHOOTING   IN   THE   SIERRA   MADRE    .       .       ....      ...      .       .       .  II9 

THE   INDIAN'S    STORY 123 

THE   CLIFF-DWELLINGS , 127 

THE   PORTAGE 133 


viii  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

BLACK   WATER 137 

THE  FAWN 140 

BREAKING  A  JAM 141 

HUNG   UP 145 

A  COACHERO 150 

THE   START 151 

MORNING   TOILET 155 

HARNESSING   MULES .......  159 

A   DAKOTA   CHICKEN-WAGON    ...............  163 

ON   THE   EDGE   OF  A   SLOUGH 164 

A   CONFERENCE   IN   THE   MUD l66 

"don't  shoot!" « .  168 

"mark — left" i70 

"mark!" ,    .  171 

trooping  homeward  in  the  after-glow 1 72 

BURGESS,  NEARLY    FORTY- FIVE   YEARS   A   SCOUT 1 76 

THE   BELL-MARE   OVER   A   BAD   PLACE ......  1 78 

DOWN  THE   MOUNTAIN .  l8l 

getting  grub .    .     .  183 

working  up  the  divide „ 185 

burgess  finding  a  ford 189 

general  guy  v.  henry,  seventh  united  states  cavalry.    .    .  i94 

riding  sitting  on  legs i96 

over  the  hurdle  back  to  back .  1 97 

throwing  a  horse i99 

over  the  hurdles  in  line .    .     „    ,  201 

"we  were  now  out  of  the  smoke " 215 

officer  and  men — first  cycle  infantry      ........  225 

ambulance  corps — first  cycle  infantry      ........  23 1 

the  toast:  "merry  Christmas!" 239 

watering  horses 245 

"  do  you  think  this  pony  is  going  to  buck  ?" 249 

dan  and  rocks 2ji 

a,  dangerous  place 253 

"gone  away" 257 

timber-topping  in  the  rockies 260 

the  bear  at  bay 263 

the  finale , 266 

the  return  of  the  hunters 267 


PONY    TRACKS 


CHASING   A    MAJOR-GENERAL 

The  car  had  been  side-tracked  at  Fort  Keough,  and 
on  the  following  morning  the  porter  shook  me,  and 
announced  that  it  was  five  o'clock.  An  hour  later  I 
stepped  out  on  the  rear  platform,  and  observed  that  the 
sun  would  rise  shortly,  but  that  meanwhile  the  air  was 
chill,  and  that  the  bald,  square-topped  hills  of  the  "  bad 
lands  "  cut  rather  hard  against  the  gray  of  the  morning. 
Presently  a  trooper  galloped  up  with  three  led  horses, 
which  he  tied  to  a  stake.  I  inspected  them,  and  saw 
that  one  had  a  "  cow  saddle,"  which  I  recognized  as  an  ex- 
periment suggested  by  the  general.  The  animal  bearing 
it  had  a  threatening  look,  and  I  expected  a  repetition  of 
a  performance  of  a  few  days  before,  when  I  had  chased 
the  general  for  over  three  hours,  making  in  all  twenty- 
eight  miles. 

Before  accepting  an  invitation  to  accompany  an  Indian 
commission  into  the  Northwest  I  had  asked  the  general 
quietly  if  this  was  a  "  horseback  "  or  a  "  wagon  outfit." 
He  had  assured  me  that  he  was  not  a  "  wagon  man,"  and 
I  indeed  had  heard  before  that  he  was  not.  There  is  al- 
ways a  distinction  in  the  army  between  wagon  men  and 
men  who  go  without  wagons  by  transporting  their  sup- 
plies on  pack  animals.  The  wagon  men  have  always  ac- 
quired more  reputation  as  travellers  than  Indian  fighters. 
In  a  trip  to  the  Pine  Ridge  Agency  I  had  discovered  that 
General  Miles  was  not  committed  to  any  strained  theory 


2  PONY   TRACKS 

of  how  mounted  men  should  be  moved.  Any  settled  pur- 
pose he  might  have  about  his  movements  were  all  locked 
Up  in  a  desperate  desire  to  "  get  thar."  Being  a  little  late 
in  leaving  a  point  on  the  railroad,  I  rode  along  with  Lieu- 
tenant Guilfoil,  of  the  Ninth,  and  we  moved  at  a  gentle 
trot.  Presently  we  met  a  citizen  in  a  wagon,  and  he, 
upon  observing  the  lieutenant  in  uniform,  pulled  up  his 
team  and  excitedly  inquired, 

"  What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Soldier?" 

Guilfoil  said  nothing  was  the  matter  that  he  knew  of. 

"  Who  be  you  uns  after  ?" 

"  No  one,"  replied  the  lieutenant. 

"  Well,  I  just  saw  a  man  go  whirling  up  this  'ere  valley 
with  a  soldier  tearin'  after  him  fit  to  kill "  (that  was  the 
general's  orderly),  "  and  then  comes  a  lot  more  soldiers 
just  a-smokin',  and  I  sort  of  wondered  what  the  man  had 
done." 

We  laughed,  and  remarked  that  the  general  must  be 
riding  pretty  hard.  Other  citizens  we  met  inquired  if 
that  man  was  a  lunatic  or  a  criminal.  The  idea  of  the 
soldiers  pursuing  a  man  in  citizen's  clothes  furthered  the 
idea,  but  we  assured  them  that  it  was  only  General  Miles 
going  somewhere. 

All  of  these  episodes  opened  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
if  I  followed  General  Miles  I  would  have  to  do  some 
riding  such  as  I  had  rarely  done  before.  In  coming  back 
to  the  railroad  we  left  the  Pine  Ridge  Agency  in  the 
evening  without  supper,  and  I  was  careful  to  get  an  even 
start.  My  horse  teetered  and  wanted  to  gallop,  but  I 
knew  that  the  twenty-eight  miles  would  have  to  be  done 
at  full  speed,  so  I  tried  to  get  him  down  to  a  fast  trot, 
which  gait  I  knew  would  last  better  ;  but  in  the  process 
of  calming  him  down  to  a  trot  I  lost  sight  of  the  gen- 
eral and  his  orderly  as  they  went   tearing  like  mad  over 


CHASING  A   MAJOR-GENERAL  5 

a  hill  against  the  last  gleam  of  the  sunset.  I  rode  at  a 
very  rapid  trot  over  the  hills  in  the  moonlight  for  over 
three  hours,  but  I  never  saw  the  general  again  until  I  met 
him  at  dinner.  Then  I  further  concluded  that  if  I  fol- 
lowed the  general  I  would  have  no  time  to  regait  my 
horses,  but  must  take  them  as  I  found  them,  gallop  or 
trot.  So  on  this  cool  morning  at  Keough  I  took  observa- 
tions of  the  horses  which  were  tied  to  the  post,  with  my 
mind  full  of  misgivings. 

Patter,  patter,  patter — clank,  clank,  clank;  up  comes  the 
company  of  Cheyenne  scouts  who  are  to  escort  the  gen- 
eral— fine  -  looking,  tall  young  men,  with  long  hair,  and 
mounted  on  small  Indian  ponies.  They  were  dressed  and 
accoutred  as  United  States  soldiers,  and  they  fill  the  eye 
of  a  military  man  until  nothing  is  lacking.  Now  the  gen- 
eral steps  out  of  the  car  and  hands  the  commission  into  a 
six-mule  ambulance.  I  am  given  a  horse,  and,  mounting, 
we  move  off  over  the  plain"  and  into  the  hills.  The  sun 
comes  streaming  over  the  landscape,  and  the  general  is 
thinking  about  this  old  trail,  and  how  years  before  he  had 
ploughed  his  way  through  the  blinding  snow  to  the' Lame 
Deer  fight.  I  am  secretly  wishing  that  it  would  occupy 
his  mind  more  fully,  so  that  my  breakfast  might  settle  at 
the  gentle  gait  we  are  going,  but  shortly  he  says,  "  It's  six- 
ty miles,  and  we  must  move  along."  We  break  into  a  gal- 
lop. The  landscape  is  gilded  by  the  morning  sun,  and 
the  cool  of  the  October  air  makes  it  a  perfect  thing,  but 
there  are  elements  in  the  affair  which  complicate  its  per- 
fection. The  "  bad  lands "  are  rough,  and  the  general 
goes  down  a  hill  with  even  more  rapidity  than  up  it.  The 
horses  are  not  the  perfect  animals  of  the  bridle-path,  but 
poor  old  cavalry  brutes,  procured  by  the  government  un- 
der the  old  contract  system,  by  which  the  government 
pays  something  like  $125  for  a  $60  horse.     This  could  be 


6  PONY   TRACKS 

remedied  by  allowing  the  officers  of  each  regiment  to  buy 
their  own  horses ;  but  in  our  army  nothing  is  remedied, 
because  a  lot  of  nice  old  gentlemen  in  Washington  are 
too  conservative  to  do  anything  but  eat  and  sleep.  There 
is  a  bit  of  human  nature  at  the  bottom  of  our  army  or- 
ganization, and  where  is  the  man  who  can  change  that? 
Men  who  were  the  very  jewels  of  the  profession  years  ago 
have  reached  in  due  time  the  upper  grades  of  rank,  and 
occupy  the  bureaus  of  the  department.  These  men  who 
have  acquired  rank,  years,  and  discretion  naturally  do 
nothing,  and  with  sedate  gravity  insist  that  no  one  else 
shall  do  anything.  The  ambitious  young  men  have  to 
wait  patiently  for  their  retirement,  and  in  process  of  wait- 
ing they,  too,  become  old  and  conservative.  Old  soldiers 
are  pardonable  rubbish,  since  soldiers,  like  other  men, 
must  age  and  decay,  the  only  distinction  being  that 
youthful  vigor  is  of  prime  importance  to  a  soldier,  while 
in  the  case  of  the  citizen  any  abatement  of  vigor  is  re- 
warded by  being  shelved.  What  to  do  with  old  soldiers 
is  a  problem  which  I  will  hand  over  to  the  economists  as 
being  beyond  my  depth.  But  to  return  to  the  going 
downhill.  General  Miles  has  acquired  his  knowledge  of 
riding  from  wild  Indians,  and  wild  Indians  go  uphill  and 
downhill  as  a  matter  of  course  at  whatever  gait  they  hap- 
pen to  be  travelling.  He  would  make  his  horse  climb  a 
tree  with  equal  gravity  if  he  was  bound  that  way.  The 
general  has  known  Indians  to  ride  for  two  days  and  a 
night  at  a  rapid  gallop,  and  it  never  occurs  to  him  that 
he  cannot  do  anything  which  any  one  else  can;  so  he 
spurs  along,  and  we  go  cutting  around  the  coulies  and 
bluffs  like  frightened  antelopes  or  mad  creatures.  The 
escort  strings  out  behind.  This  is  observed  with  a  grim 
humor  by  the  general,  who  desires  nothing  so  much  as  to 
leave  his  escort  far  in  the  rear.     He  turns  in  his  saddle, 


CHASING  A  MAJOR-GENERAL  7 

and  seeing  the  dust  of  the  escort  far  behind,  says: 
"  Shake  up  the  young  men  a  little  ;  do  'em  good.  They 
get  sleepy  ;"  and  away  we  go. 

It  is  over  thirty  miles  to  the  first  relay  station,  or  cou- 
rier's camp,  and  another  problem  looms  up.  The  general's 
weight  is  over  two  hundred  pounds,  and  I  confess  to  two 
hundred  and  fifteen  avoirdupois,  and,  as  I  have  before 
remarked,  my  horse  was  not  an  Irish  hunter,  so  my  mus- 
ing took  a  serious  vein.  It  is  all  very  well  for  a  major- 
general  to  ride  down  a  cavalry  horse,  but  if  such  an 
accident  were  to  happen  to  me,  then  my  friends  in  the 
cavalry  would  crown  me  with  thorns.  Two  hundred 
and  fifteen  pounds  requires  a  great  deal  more  careful  at- 
tention  than  a  one-hundred-and-forty-pound  wasp-waisted 
cavalryman.  What  the  latter  can  do  with  impunity 
would  put  me  on  foot — a  thing  that  happened  some  ten 
years  since  in  this  very  State  of  Montana,  and  a  thing  I 
have  treasured  in  mind,  and  will  not  have  repeated.  So 
I  brought  the  old  horse  down  to  a  trot,  and  a  good  round 
trot  eats  up  a  road  in  short  order.  Your  galloper  draws 
away  from  you,  but  if  the  road  is  long  enough,  you  find 
that  you  are  at  his  heels. 

After  a  good  day's  ride  of  something  like  sixty  miles, 
we  met  a  troop  of  the  Eighth  Cavalry  near  its  camp  on 
the  Tongue  River,  and  the  general  is  escorted  in.  The 
escorts  draw  into  line,  salute,  and  the  general  is  duly  de- 
posited in  a  big  Sibley  tent ;  and  I  go  away  on  the  arms 
of  some  "  cavalry  kids  "  (as  young  lieutenants  are  called) 
to  a  hole  in  the  ground  (a  dugout)  where  they  are  quar- 
tered. On  the  following  morning  I  am  duly  admonished 
that  if  my  whereabouts  could  have  been  ascertained  on 
the  previous  evening,  the  expedition  would  have  con- 
tinued to  the  camp  of  the  First  Cavalry.  I  do  not  think 
the  general  was  unduly  severe,  desiring  simply  to  shift 


8  PONY   TRACKS 

the  responsibility  of  the  procrastination  on  to  other 
shoulders,  and  meanwhile  being  content  to  have  things  as 
they  were.  I  was  privately  thanked  by  the  citizen  mem- 
bers of  the  commission  for  the  delay  I  had  caused,  since 
they  had  a  well-grounded  conviction  that  sixty  miles  a 
day  in  an  army  ambulance  was  trouble  enough.  After 
some  sarcasm  by  a  jolly  young  sub,  to  the  effect  that  "  if 
one  wants  to  call  a  citizen  out  of  a  tent,  one  must  ring  a 
dinner-bell,"  we  were  again  mounted  and  on  the  way.  I 
was  badly  mounted  that  day,  but  able  to  participate  in 
the  wild  charge  of  forty -five  miles  to  the  Lame  Deer 
camp,  near  the.  Cheyenne  Agency.  The  fifty  Cheyenne 
scouts  and  a  troop  of  the  Eighth  were  in  escort. 

By  a  happy  combination  I  was  able  to  add  greatly  to 
my  equestrian  knowledge  on  this  ride.  It  happened  in 
this  way ;  but  I  must  explain.  Some  years  ago  I  had 
occasion  to  ride  a  stock  saddle  (the  cowboy  article),  and 
with  all  the  positiveness  of  immature  years,  I  held  all 
other  trees  and  all  other  methods  of  riding  in  a  magnifi- 
cent contempt.  Later  on  I  had  to  be  convinced  that  a 
great  many  young  cavalry  officers  in  our  service  were  the 
most  daring  and  perfect  riders,  and  that  the  McClelland 
saddle  was  the  proper  thing.  I  even  elaborated  a  theory 
in  explanation  of  all  this,  which  I  had  duly  shattered  for 
me  when  I  came  East  and  frequented  a  New  York  riding- 
academy,  where  a  smiling  professor  of  the  art  assured  me 
that  cowboys  and  soldiers  were  the  worst  possible  riders. 
Indeed,  the  sneers  of  the  polite  European  were  so  super- 
lative that  I  dared  not  even  doubt  his  statements.  Of 
course  I  never  quite  understood  how  my  old  champions 
of  the  cattle  range  and  the  war  trail  could  pick  things  off 
the  ground  while  in  full  career,  or  ride  like  mad  over  the 
cut  banks  and  bowlders,  if  they  were  such  desperately  bad 
riders ;  and  I  never  was  able   to  completely  understand 


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CHASING  A    MAJOR-GENERAL  II 

why  my  European  master  could  hardly  turn  in  his  saddle 
without  tumbling  off.  But  still  he  reduced  me  to  submis- 
sion, and  I  ceased  even  to  doubt.  I  changed  my  style  of 
riding,  in  deference  to  a  public  sentiment,  and  got  my  legs 
tucked  up  under  my  chin,  and  learned  to  loose  my  seat  at 
every  alternate  footfall,  and  in  time  acquired  a  balance 
which  was  as  secure  as  a  pumpkin  on  the  side  of  a  barrel. 
Thus  equipped  with  all  this  knowledge  and  my  own  sad- 
dle, I  went  out  to  the  Northwest  with  the  purpose  of  in- 
troducing a  little  revolution  in  cavalry  riding.  Things 
went  swimmingly  for  a  time.  The  interpreters  and  scouts 
watched  my  riding  with  mingled  pity  and  scorn,  but  I 
knew  they  were  unenlightened,  and  in  no  way  to  be  re- 
garded seriously.  The  general  was  duly  amused  by  my 
teetering,  and  suggested  to  the  smiling  escort  officers  that 
"  he  has  lived  so  long  abroad,  you  know,"  etc.,  all  of  which 
I  did  not  mind,  for  my  faith  in  the  eternal  art  of  the  thing 
was  complete.  Now  to  tell  how  I  discovered  that  I  was 
riding  a  seat  which  was  no  seat  at  all,  and  was  only  re- 
tained by  a  series  of  happy  accidents,  I  will  continue. 
While  at  the  head  of  the  column,  where  I  could  see  the 
deep  ruts  in  the  road  and  the  bowlders,  and  could  dodge 
the  prairie-dog  holes,  it  was  simple  enough  ;  but  my  horse 
being  a  very  clumsy  galloper,  and  beginning  to  blow 
under  the  pace,  I  began  to  pull  up,  calculating  to  get  a 
sharp  trot,  and  overhaul  the  column  when  it  slowed  down. 
The  column  of  soldiers  dashed  by,  and  the  great  cloud  of 
dust  rose  up  behind  them  which  always  follows  a  herd  of 
animals  in  the  West.  Being  no  longer  able  to  see,  the 
only  thing  to  do  under  the  circumstances  was  to  give  my 
horse  his  head,  and  resign  myself  to  the  chances  of  a 
gopher  hole,  if  it  was  foreordained  that  my  horse  should 
find  one.  True  to  his  instincts,  my  old  cavalry  horse 
plunged  into  the  ranks.     You  cannot  keep  a  troop  horse 


12  PONY   TRACKS 

out  of  the  ranks.  They  know  their  place,  and  seek  it 
with  the  exactitude  of  water.  If  the  cavalry  tactics  are 
ever  changed,  the  present  race  of  horses  will  have  to  be 
sold,  because,  while  you  can  teach  a  horse  anything,  you 
cannot  unteach  him. 

In  front  I  could  see  two  silhouettes  of  soldiers  tearing 
along,  and  behind  could  hear  the  heavy  pounding  of  the 
troop  horses,  the  clank  of  arms,  the  snorts  and  heavy 
breathings.  I  could  hardly  see  my  horse's  head,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  ground  in  front.  Here  is  where  the  per- 
fect grip  with  the  thighs  is  wanted,  and  here  is  where  the 
man  who  is  bundled  up  like  a  ball  on  his  horse's  back  is 
in  imminent  danger  of  breaking  his  neck.  I  felt  like  a 
pack  on  a  government  mule,  and  only  wished  I  had  some 
one  to  "  throw  the  diamond  hitch  over  me."  The  ine- 
qualities of  the  road  make  your  horse  plunge  and  go  stag- 
gering sidewise,  or  down  on  his  knees,  and  it  is  not  at  all 
an  unusual  thing  for  a  cavalryman  to  upset  entirely, 
though  nothing  short  of  a  total  turn-over  will  separate  a 
veteran  soldier  from  his  horse.  After  a  few  miles  of 
these  vicissitudes  I  gained  the  head  of  the  column,  and 
when  the  pace  slackened  I  turned  the  whole  thing  over  in 
my  mind,  and  a  great  light  seemed  to  shine  through  the 
whole  subject.  For  a  smooth  road  and  a  trotting  horse, 
that  European  riding-master  was  right ;  but  when  you  put 
a  man  in  the  dust  or  smoke,  over  the  rocks  and  cut  banks, 
on  the  u  bucking"  horse,  or  where  he  must  handle  his 
weapons  or  his  vieta,  he  must  have  a  seat  on  his  mount  as 
tight  as  a  stamp  on  an  envelope,  and  not  go  washing 
around  like  a  shot  in  a  bottle.  In  a  park  or  on  a  country 
road,  where  a  man  has  nothing  to  do  but  give  his  undi- 
vided attention  to  sticking  on  his  saddle,  it  has  its  advan- 
tages. An  Indian  or  a  cowboy  could  take  the  average 
park  rider  off  from  his  horse,  scalp  him,  hang  him  on  a 


CHASING   A   MAJOR-GENERAL  15 

bush,  and  never  break  a  gallop.  I  do  not  wish  to  seem 
intolerant,  because  I  will  say  that  the  most  beautiful  horse 
and  the  most  perfect  horseman  I  have  ever  seen  was  the 
bay  gelding  Partisan  and  his  rider  in  the  high-school  class 
at  the  recent  Horse  Show  in  New  York ;  but  I  do  insist 
that  no  one  shall  for  a  moment  imagine  that  the  Ameri- 
can style  of  riding  is  not  the  firmest  of  all  seats. 

With  a  repetition  of  the  military  forms,  we  reached  the 
cavalry  camp  on  the  Lame  Deer  Creek.  This  is  an  old 
battle-ground  of  the  general's — his  last  fight  with  the 
Cheyennes,  where,  as  the  general  puts  it,  we  "  kicked  them 
out  of  their  blankets  in  the  early  morning."  These 
Indians  recognize  him  as  their  conqueror,  and  were  allied 
with  him  in  the  Nez  Perce  campaign.  One  old  chief 
pointed  to  the  stars  on  his  shoulder-strap,  and  charged 
him  to  remember  that  they  "helped  to  put  them  there. 

That  night  was  very  cold,  and  I  slept  badly,  so  at  an 
early  hour  I  rolled  out  of  my  blankets  and  crawled  into 
my  clothes.  I  stepped  out  of  my  tent,  and  saw  that  the 
stars  were  yet  visible  and  the  light  of  the  morning  warm- 
ing up  to  chase  the  gray  shadows  over  the  western  hills. 
Three  tight  little  cavalry  soldiers  came  out  on  the  parade, 
and  blew  three  bugles  as  hard  as  ever  they  could  to  an 
unappreciative  audience  of  sleepy  soldiers  and  solemn 
hills.  I  walked  down  past  the  officers'  row,  and  shook 
the  kinks  out  of  my  stiffened  knees.  Everything  was  as 
quietly  dismal  as  only  a  sleeping  camp  can  be.  The  Sib- 
ley containing  General  Miles  showed  no  signs  of  life,  and 
until  he  arose  this  little  military  solar  system  would  not 
revolve.  I  bethought  me  of  the  irregulars.  They  were 
down  in  the  river  bottom — Lieutenant  Casey  and  his  Ind- 
ian scouts.  I  knew  that  Casey  had  commanded  Indian 
scouts  until  his  temper  was  as  refined  as  beaten  gold,  so 
I  thought  it  safer  to  arouse  him  than  any  one  else,  and, 


16  PONY   TRACKS 

walking  down,  I  scratched  at  his  tent  —  which  is  equiva- 
lent to  knocking  —  and  received  a  rather  loud  and  surly 
inquiry  as  to  what  I  wanted.  My  sensitive  nature  was  so 
shocked  by  this  that,  like  the  bad  actor,  I  had  hopes  for 
no  more  generous  gift  than  a  cigarette.  I  was  let  into  the 
Sibley,  and  saw  the  ground  covered  with  blanketed  forms. 
One  of  the  swathed  forms  sat  up,  and  the  captain  allowed 
he  wanted  to  get  up  in  the  night,  but  that  ever  since  Lieu- 
tenant Blank  had  shot  at  the  orderly  he  was  afraid  to 
move  about  in  the  gloom.  Lieutenant  B.  sat  up  and  de- 
nied the  impeachment.  Another  officer  arose  and  made 
some  extended  remarks  on  the  unseemly  disturbance  at 
this  unseasonable  hour.  To  pass  over  these  inequalities 
of  life,  I  will  say  that  the  military  process  of  stiffening  a 
man's  backbone  and  reducing  his  mind  to  a  logarithm 
breeds  a  homogeneous  class  whom  we  all  know.  They 
have  small  waists,  and  their  clothes  fit  them ;  they  are 
punctilious ;  they  respect  forms,  and  always  do  the  digni- 
fied and  proper  thing  at  the  particular  instant,  and  never 
display  their  individuality  except  on  two  occasions  :  one 
is  the  field  of  battle  and  the  other  is  before  breakfast. 
Some  bright  fellow  will  one  day  tell  in  print  the  droll  stock 
anecdotes  of  the  United  States  army,  and  you'll  all  agree 
that  they  are  good.  They  are  better,  though,  if  you  sit 
in  a  Sibley  on  a  cold  morning  while  the  orderly  boils 
the  coffee ;  and  are  more  fortunate  if  you  have  Ned  Casey 
to  embellish  what  he  calls  the  international  complications 
which  arose  from  the  bombardment  of  Canada  with  pav- 
ing-stones by  a  drunken  recruit  at  Detroit. 

After  the  commission  had  talked  to  a  ring  of  drowsy 
old  chiefs,  and  the  general  had  reminded  them  that  he 
had  thrashed  them  once,  and  was  perfectly  willing  to  do 
it  again  if  they  did  not  keep  in  the  middle  of  the  big 
road,  the   commission  was  loaded  into   the  ambulances. 


CHASING   A   MAJOR-GENERAL  19 

The  driver  clucked  and  whistled  and  snapped  his  whip 
as  a  preliminary  which  always  precedes  the  concerted 
movement  of  six  mules,  and  we  started.  This  time  I 
found  that  I  had  a  mount  that  was  "  a  horse  from  the 
ground  up,"  as  they  phrase  it  in  the  red-blooded  West. 
Well  it  was  so,  for  at  the  relay  camp  I  had  issued  to  me 
a  sorrel  ruin  which  in  the  pristine  vigor  of  its  fifth  year 
would  not  have  commanded  the  value  of  a  tin  cup.  Af- 
ter doing  a  mile  of  song  and  dance  on  this  poor  beast  I 
dismounted,  and  shifting  my  saddle  back  to  my  led  horse 
of  the  morning,  which  was  led  by  a  Crow  scout,  made  the 
sixty-mile  march  of  that  day  on  the  noble  animal.  Poor 
old  chap,  fit  for  a  king,  good  for  all  day  and  the  next, 
would  bring  six  hundred  dollars  in  the  New  York  Horse 
Exchange,  but  condemned  to  pack  a  trooper  in  the  ranks 
until  a  penurious  government  condemns  and  sells  him  to 
a  man  who,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  by  the  law  of  God, 
ought  not  to  be  intrusted  with  the  keeping  of  the  mean- 
est of  his  creatures,  to  say  nothing  of  his  noblest  work — 
a  horse.  "  Such  is  life,"  is  the  salve  a  good  soldier  puts 
on  his  wounds. 

During  the  day  we  went  all  over  the  battle-field  of  the 
Little  Big  Horn.  I  heard  a  good  deal  of  professional 
criticism;  and  it  is  my  settled  conviction  that  had  Reno 
and  Benteen  gone  in  and  fought  as  hard  as  they  were 
commanded  to  do,  Custer  would  have  won  his  fight,  and 
to-day  be  a  major-general.  The  military  moral  of  that 
affair  for  young  soldiers  is  that  when  in  doubt  about  what 
to  do  it  is  always  safe  to  go  in  and  fight  "till  you  drop," 
remembering  that,  however  a  citizen  may  regard  the 
proposition,  a  soldier  cannot  afford  to  be  anything  else 
than  a  "  dead  lion." 

We  were  nearing  the  Crow  Agency  and  Fort  Custer, 
and  it  is  against  all  my  better  impulses,  and  with  trepida- 


20  PONY   TRACKS 

tion  at  the  impropriety  of  unveiling  the  truth,  that  I  dis-* 
close  the  fact  that  the  general  would  halt  the  column  at  a 
convenient  distance  from  a  post,  and  would  then  exchange 
his  travel -worn  garb  for  glittering  niceties  of  a  major- 
general's  uniform.  The  command  then  advanced  into  the 
fort.  The  guns  bellowed  and  the  cavalry  swung  into  line, 
while  numerous  officers  gathered,  in  all  the  perfection  of 
neat -fitting  uniforms,  to  receive  him.  At  this  time  the 
writer  eliminated  himself  from  the  ceremonial,  and  from 
some  point  of  vantage  proceeded  to  pull  up  his  boots 
so  as  to  cover  as  much  as  possible  the  gaping  wounds  in 
his  riding-trousers,  and  tried  vainly  to  make  a  shooting- 
jacket  fit  like  an  officer's  blouse,  while  he  dealt  his  hat 
sundry  thumps  in  a  vain  endeaver  to  give  it  a  more 
rakish  appearance.  He  was  then  introduced  and  apolo- 
gized for  in  turn.  To  this  day  he  hopes  the  mantle  of 
charity  was  broad  enough  to  cover  his  case. 

What  a  contrast  between  soldiers  in  field  and  soldiers 
in  garrison!  Natty  and  trim — as  straight  as  a  sapling, 
with  few  words  and  no  gestures — quite  unlike  those  of 
two  days,  or  rather  nights,  ago,  when  the  cold  froze  them 
out  of  their  blankets,  and  they  sat  around  the  camp-fires 
pounding  tin  cans  and  singing  the  Indian  medicine  song 
with  a  good  Irish  accent.  Very  funny  that  affair — the 
mixture  of  Cheyenne  and  Donnybrook  is  a  strange  noise. 

The  last  stage  from  Custer  to  the  railroad  is  thirty-five 
miles  and  a  half,  which  we  did  with  two  relays,  the  latter 
half  of  it  in  the  night.  There  was  no  escort — only  two 
orderlies  and  the  general — and  I  pattered  along  through 
the  gloom.  The  clouds  hung  over  the  earth  in  a  dense 
blanket,  and  the  road  was  as  dim  as  a  Florentine  fresco; 
but  night  nor  cold  nor  heat  can  bring  General  Miles  to  a 
walk,  and  the  wild  charge  in  the  dark  was,  as  an  experi- 
ence,  a    complete    thing.      You    cannot    see ;  you   whirl 


CHASING  A    MAJOR-GENERAL  21 

through  a  canon  cut  in  the  mud  ;  you  plough  through 
the  sage-brush  and  over  the  rocks  clatter  and  bang.  The 
general  is  certainly  a  grim  old  fellow  —  one  of  the  kind 
that  make  sparks  fly  when  he  strikes  an  obstacle.  I  could 
well  believe  the  old  Fifth  Infantryman  who  said  "  he's  put 
many  a  corn  on  a  dough-boy's  foot,"  and  it's  a  red-letter 
day  for  any  one  else  that  keeps  at  his  horse's  heels.  You 
may  ride  into  a  hole,  over  a  precipice,  to  perdition,  if  it's 
your  luck  on  this  night,  but  is  not  the  general  in  front? 
You  follow  the  general — that's  the  grand  idea — that  is 
the  military  idea.  If  the  United  States  army  was  strung 
out  in  line  with  its  general  ahead,  and  if  he  should  ride 
out  into  the  broad  Atlantic  and  swim  to  sea,  the  whole 
United  States  army  would  follow  along,  for  that's  the 
idea,  you  know. 

But  for  the  headlong  plunge  of  an  orderly,  we  passed 
through  all  right,  with  due  thankfulness  on  my  part,  and 
got  to  our  car  at  the  siding,  much  to  the  gratification  of 
the  Chicago  colored  man  in  charge,  who  found  life  at  Cus- 
ter Station  a  horrid  blank.  Two  hundred  and  forty-eight 
miles  in  thirty-six  hours  and  a  half,  and  sixty  miles  of  it 
on  one  horse,  was  not  bad  riding,  considering  everything. 
Not  enough  to  make  a  man  famous  or  lame,  but  enough 
for  the  time  being. 


LIEUTENANT  CASEY'S  LAST  SCOUT 

ON   THE    HOSTILE    FLANKS   WITH   THE    CHIS-CHIS-CHASH 

The  train  bearing  the  Cheyenne  scout  corps  pulled 
into  Rapid  City  somewhat  late.  It  is  possible  you  may 
think  that  it  was  a  train  of  Pullman  palace  cars,  but  you 
would  be  mistaken,  for  it  was  a  freight  train,  with  the 
horses  in  tight  box-cars,  the  bacon  and  Chis-chis-chash  * 
on  flat  gravel  cars,  and  Lieutenants  Casey  and  Getty  in 
the  caboose.  Evidently  the  element  of  haste  was  woven 
into  this  movement.  We  were  glad  to  meet  again.  Ex- 
pansive smiles  lit  up  the  brown  features  of  the  Indian 
scouts  as  they  recognized  me.  Old  Wolf-Voice  came 
around  in  his  large,  patronizing  way  and  said,  "  How? — 
what  you  do  out  here?"  Wolf-Voice  was  a  magnificent 
type  of  the  Indian,  with  a  grand  face,  a  tremendous 
physique,  and  enough  self-containment  for  a  High-Church 
bishop.  High-Walking  nudged  Stump-Horn  and  whispered 
in  his  ear,  and  they  both  smiled  as  they  looked  at  me. 
Lieutenant  Casey  walked  out  in  the  road  and  talked  with 
General  Miles,  who  sat  on  his  beautiful  sorrel  horse,  while 
two  scouts  and  a  young  "  horse-pusher  "  f  from  St.  Louis 
helped  me  to  load  one  strawberry- roan  horse,  branded 
*'  52 "  on    the   nigh    front    foot,   into    a    box-car   with   a 

*The  name  the  Cheyenries  apply  to  themselves, 
f  Boy  who  travels  with  horses  on  the  cars. 


LIEUTENANT   CASEY'S   LAST   SCOUT  23 

scrawny  lot  of  little  ponies,  who  showed  the  hard  scout- 
ing of  the  last  month  in  their  lank  quarters. 

The  quartermaster  came  down  and  asked  Lieutenant 
Casey  for  a  memorandum  of  his  outfit,  which  was  "  70 
horses,  49  Indian  scouts,  1  interpreter,  2  white  officers, 
1000  pounds  of  bacon,  so  many  crackers,  2000  pounds 
forage,  5  Sibley  tents,  and  1  citizen,"  all  of  which  the 
quartermaster  put  down  in  a  little  book.  You  are  not 
allowed  by  United  States  quartermasters  to  have  an  ex- 
aggerated estimate  of  your  own  importance.  Bacon  and 
forage  and  citizens  all  go  down  in  the  same  column,  with 
the  only  distinction  that  the  bacon  and  forage  outnumber 
you. 

We  were  pulled  down  the  road  a  few  miles  to  the  town 
of  Hermoso,  and  there,  in  the  moonlight,  the  baggage 
was  unloaded  and  the  wild  little  ponies  frightened  out  of 
the  cars,  down  a  chute,  into  the  stock  corrals.  The 
Sibleys  were  pitched,  and  a  crowd  of  curious  citizens, 
who  came  down  to  feast  their  eyes  on  the  Chis-chis-chash, 
were  dissipated  when  a  rather  frugal  dinner  was  pre- 
pared. This  was  Christmas  night,  and  rather  a  cheerless 
one,  since,  in  the  haste  of  departure,  the  Sibley  stoves 
had  been  forgotten.  We  never  had  stoves  again  until 
the  gallant  Leavenworth  battalion  came  to  the  rescue 
with  their  surplus,  and  in  the  cold,  frosty  nights  in  the 
foot-hills  there  can  be  no  personal  happiness  where  there 
are  no  stoves.  We  brewed  a  little  mess  of  hot  stuff  in 
a  soldier's  tin  cup,  and,  in  the  words  of  Private  Mul- 
vaney,  we  drank  to  the  occasion,  "three  fingers  —  stand- 
ing up  !" 

The  good  that  comes  in  the  ill  wind  where  stoves  are 
lacking  is  that  you  can  get  men  up  in  the  morning. 
Sun -worship  must  have  originated  in  circumstances  of 
this  kind.     The  feeling  of  thankfulness  at  the  sight  of 


24  PONY   TRACKS 

the  golden  rays  permeates  your  soul,  and  your  very  bones 
are  made  glad. 

A  few  ounces  of  bacon,  some  of  those  accursed  crackers 
which  are  made  to  withstand  fire,  water,  and  weevil,  a 
quart  of  coffee  blacker  than  evil,  then  down  come  the 
Sibleys,  the  blankets  are  rolled  and  the  saddles  adjusted, 
and  bidding  adios  to  the  First  Infantry  (which  came  in 
during  the  night),  we  trot  off  down  the  road. 

These,  then,  are  the  Cheyenne  scouts.  Well,  I  am  glad 
I  know  the  fact,  but  I  never  can  reconcile  the  trim-look- 
ing scout  corps  of  Keogh  with  these  strange-looking  ob- 
jects. Erstwhile  their  ponies  were  fat,  and  cavorted 
around  when  falling  in  ranks  ;  now  they  paddle  along  in 
the  humblest  kind  of  a  business-like  jog-trot.  The  new 
overcoats  of  the  corps  metamorphose  the  scouts  into 
something  between  Russian  Cossacks  and  Black  Crooks. 
Saddle  pockets  bulge  out,  and  a  thousand  and  one  little 
alterations  in  accoutrement  grow  up  in  the  field  which 
are  frowned  down  in  garrison.  The  men  have  scouted 
hard  for  a  month,  and  have  lost  two  nights'  sleep,  so  at 
the  halts  for  the  wagons  they  lop  down  in  the  dust  of 
the  road,  and  sleep,  while  the  little  ponies  stand  over 
them,  ears  down,  heads  hanging,  eyes  shut,  and  one 
hind  foot  drawn  up  on  its  toe.  Nothing  can  look  so  de- 
jected as  a  pony,  and  doubtless  few  things  have  more 
reason  to  feel  so.  A  short  march  of  twenty-five  miles 
passes  us  through  the  Seventeenth  Infantry  camp  under 
Colonel  OfBey,  and  down  to  the  Cheyenne  River,  where 
we  camp  for  the  night.  There  is  another  corps  of 
Cheyenne  scouts  somewhere  here  on  the  river,  under 
Lieutenant  L.  H.  Struthers,  of  the  First  Infantry,  and 
we  expect  to  join  them.  On  the  other  side  of  the  Chey- 
enne rise  the  tangled  masses  of  the  famous  Bad  Lands — 
seamed  and  serrated,  gray  here,  the  golden  sunset  flash- 


CHIS-CHIS-CHASH    SCOUT   ON   THE   FLANKS 


LIEUTENANT   CASEY'S   LAST    SCOUT  27 

ing  there,  with  dark  recesses  giving  back  a  frightful 
gloom — a  place  for  stratagem  and  murder,  with  nothing 
to  witness  its  mysteries  but  the  cold  blue  winter  sky. 
Yet  we  are  going  there.  It  is  full  of  savage  Sioux.  The 
sun  goes  down.     I  am  glad  to  cease  thinking  about  it. 

It  is  such  a  mere  detail  that  I  will  not  waste  time  on  it, 
but  this  freezing  out  of  your  blankets  four  or  five  times 
every  night,  and  this  having  to  go  out  and  coax  a  cook- 
ing fire  into  a  cheerful  spirit,  can  occupy  a  man's  mind 
so  that  any  words  not  depraved  do  not  seem  of  any  conse- 
quence. During  one  of  the  early  hours  I  happened  to 
sleep,  and  in  this  interval  Mr.  Struthers  came  into  our 
tepee.  He  had  been  on  a  night's  ride  to  the  colonel  for 
orders,  and  in  passing,  dropped  in  for  a  chat  with  Casey. 
When  about  to  go,  he  said, 

"  Oh,  by-the-way,  I  met  Remington." 

"Do  you  want  to  renew  the  acquaintance?"  replied 
Casey. 

"  Why — how — why — yes." 

"  Well,  he's  there,  on  the  other  side  of 'this  tent."  And 
Mr.  Struthers  passed  out  in  the  gloom,  and  his  muttered 
expressions  of  astonishment  were  presently  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance. I  had  ridden  and  camped  with  Mr.  Struthers  a 
few  days  since  in  the  up  country,  while  on  the  way  to 
"  the  galloping  Sixth." 

The  next  day  we  passed  down  the  river,  and  soon  saw 
what  to  inexperienced  eyes  might  be  dark  gray  rocks  on 
the  top  of  yellow  hills.  They  were  the  pickets  of  the 
Cheyennes,  and  presently  we  saw  the  tepees  and  the 
ponies,  and  then  we  rode  into  camp.  The  men  from 
Tongue  River  greeted  the  men  from  Pine  Ridge  —  the 
relatives  and  friends — with  ki-yis  of  delight.  The  corps 
from  Pine  Ridge  was  organized  from  the  Cheyennes  on 
that  reservation,  and  was  as  yet  only  partially  disciplined, 


28  PONY   TRACKS 

and  in  no  way  to  be  compared  with  Casey's  Old  Guard 
from  Tongue  River.  Some  two  nights  before,  the  Sioux 
had  fired  into  their  camp,  and  they  had  skirmished  with 
the  enemy.  The  vermilion  of  the  war-path  was  on  every 
countenance,  and,  through  sympathy,  I  saw  that  our  men 
too  had  gone  into  this  style  of  decorative  art ;  for  faces 
which  had  previously  been  fresh  and  clean  now  passed  my 
vision  streaked  and  daubed  into  preternatural  ferocity. 

It  grew  late  and  later,  and  yet  Lieutenant  Struthers  did 
not  return  from  his  scouting  of  the  day.  We  were  alarmed, 
and  wondered  and  hoped  ;  for  scouting  through  the  Bad 
Lands  to  the  stronghold  was  dangerous,  to  state  it  mildly. 
A  few  shots  would  not  be  heard  twelve  miles  away  in  the 
hills.  We  pictured  black  objects  lying  prone  on  the  sand 
as  we  scouted  next  day — little  masses  of  clay  which  had 
been  men  and  horses,  but  would  then  be  as  silent  as  the 
bare  hillocks  about  them. 

"  Ki-yi-yip — a-ou  !"  and  a  patter  in  the  gloom. 

"  That's  Struthers."  We  fall  over  each  other  as  we 
pile  out  of  the  hole  in  the  Sibley,  and  find  Struthers  and 
Lieutenant  Byrom,  of  the  Eighth  Cavalry,  all  safe  and 
sound. 

"We  have  been  on  the  stronghold;  they  are  all  gone; 
rustle  some  coffee,"  are  words  in  the  darkness ;  and  we 
crawl  back  into  the  tent,  where  presently  the  big,  honest, 
jolly  eyes  of  Mr.  Struthers  look  over  a  quart  cup,  and  we 
are  happy.  Byrom  was  a  fine  little  cavalryman,  and  I 
have  good  reason  to  know  that  for  impudent  daring  of 
that  desperately  quiet  kind  he  is  distinguished  in  places 
where  all  men  are  brave. 

Away  goes  the  courier  to  the  colonel  for  orders,  and 
after  a  time  back  he  comes — a  wild  dash  of  twelve  miles 
in  the  dark,  and  of  little  moment  here,  but  a  life  memory 
to  an  unaccustomed  one. 


LIEUTENANT   CASEY'S   LAST   SCOUT  29 

"  We  go  on  the  stronghold  in  the  morning,"  says  Casey; 
"  and  now  to  bed."  A  bed  consists  of  two  blankets 
spread  on  the  ground,  and  all  the  personal  property  not 
otherwise  appropriated  piled  on  top.  A  luxury,  mind 
you,  is  this  ;  later  it  was  much  more  simple,  consisting 
of  earth  for  a  mattress  and  the  sky  for  a  counterpane. 

The  sun  is  not  up  when  in  comes  the  horse  herd.  My 
strawberry  roan  goes  sneaking  about  in  the  frosty  willows, 
and  after  sundry  well-studied  manoeuvres  I  get  a  grip  on 
the  lariat,  and  am  lugged  and  jerked  over  the  brush  until 
"52  on  the  nigh  front  foot "  consents  to  stand  still.  I 
saddle  up,  but  have  lost  my  gun.  I  entreat  Mr.  Thomp- 
son, the  interpreter,  to  help  me  find  it.  Mr.  Thompson 
is  a  man  who  began  fighting  for  the  Union  in  East  Ten- 
nessee about  thirty  years  long  gone,  and  he  has  con- 
tinued to  engage  in  that  work  up  to  date.  Mr.  Thomp- 
son has  formed  a  character  which  is  not  as  round  as 
a  ball,  but  much  more  the  shape  of  horn -silver  in  its 
native  state.  He  is  humorous  by  turns,  and  early  in  my 
acquaintance  he  undertook  the  cultivation  of  my  mind 
in  the  art  of  war  as  practised  on  the  frontier.  On  this 
occasion  he  at  last  found  my  Springfield,  and  handed  it 
to  me  with  the  admonition  "  that  in  times  like  these  one 
warrior  can't  look  after  another  warrior's  gun." 

The  wagons  were  to  go — well,  I  never  knew  where,  but 
they  went  off  over  the  hills,  and  I  never  saw  them  again 
for  some  miserable  days  and  dreary  nights.  Five  Pine 
Ridge  Cheyennes  and  Mr.  Wolf- Voice  were  my  party, 
and  we  filed  away.  At  Battle  Creek  we  watered,  and 
crossed  the  Cheyenne  a  mile  above.  My  horse  was 
smooth  shod,  and  the  river  frozen  half-way  over,  so  we 
slid  around  on  the  ice,  and  jumped  into  the  icy  waters, 
got  wet,  crawled  out,  slid  around  some  more,  and  finally 
landed.     Mr.  Wolf-Voice  looked  me  over,  and  smilingly 


3o 


PONY   TRACKS 


said,  "Me  think  you  no  like  'em";  wherein  his  conclu- 
sion was  eminently  correct.  Who  does  like  to  have  a 
mass  of  ice  freeze  on  him  when  naturally  the  weather  is 
cold  enough  to  satisfy  a  walrus  ? 

It  was  twelve  miles  through  the  defiles  of  the  Bad 
Lands  to  the  blue  ridge  of  the  high  mesa  where  the 
hostiles  had  lived.  The  trail  was  strewn  with  dead  cattle, 
some  of  them  having  never  been  touched  with  a  knife. 
Here  and  there  a  dead  pony,  ridden  to  a  stand -still 
and  left  nerveless  on  the  trail.  No  words  of  mine  can 
describe  these  Bad  Lands.  They  are  somewhat  as  Dore 
pictured  hell.  One  set  of  buttes,  with  cones  and  mina- 
rets, gives  place  in  the  next  mile  to  natural  freaks  of 
a  different  variety,  never  dreamed  of  by  mortal  man.  It 
is  the  action  of  water  on  clay;  there  are  ashes,  or  what 
looks  like  them.  The  painter's  whole  palette  is  in  one 
bluff.  A  year's  study  of  these  colors  by  Mr.  Bierstadt, 
Professor  Marsh,  and  Mr.  Notman  might  possibly  convey 
to  the  Eastern  mind  an  idea;  so  we'll  amble  along  after 
Mr.  Wolf-Voice,  and  leave  that  subject  intact. 

"  Hark !"  My  little  party  stops  suddenly,  and  we  all 
listen.     I  feel  stupid. 

"You  hear  'em?"  says  Wolf- Voice,  in  a  stage-whisper. 

"  Hear  what?"  I  say. 

"  Shots." 

Then  we  all  get  out  our  guns  and  go  galloping  like  mad. 
I  can't  imagine  why,  but  I  spur  my  horse  and  perform 
equestrian  feats  which  in  an  ordinary  frame  of  mind  I 
should  regard  as  insane.  Down  a  narrow  trail  we  go,  with 
the  gravel  flying,  and  through  a  coulee,  up  a  little  hill,  on 
top  of  which  we  stop  to  listen,  and  then  away  we  go. 
The  blue  wall  grows  nearer,  and  at  last  we  are  under  it. 
A  few  cotton-wood  trees,  some  frozen  water,  a  little  cleft 
on  the  bluffs,  and  I  see  a  trail  winding  upward.     I  know 


LIEUTENANT    CASEY'S    EAST    SCOUT  33 

these  warriors  are  going  up  there,  but  I  can't  understand 
precisely  how.  It  is  not  the  first  perilous  trail  I  have  con- 
templated ;  but  there  are  dead  cattle  lying  at  the  bottom 
which  had  fallen  off  and  been  killed  in  the  ascent.  We 
dismount  and  start  up.  It  tells  on  your  wind,  and  tries 
the  leg  muscles.  Up  a  steep  place  a  horse  wants  to  go 
fast,  and  you  have  to  keep  him  from  running  over  you. 
A  bend  in  the  trail  where  the  running  water  has  frozen 
seems  impassable.  I  jump  across  it,  and  then  pull  the 
bridle  and  say,  "  Come  on,  boy  !"  If  I  were  the  horse  I 
would  balk,  but  the  noble  animal  will  try  it.  A  leap,  a 
plunging,  and  with  a  terrible  scrabble  we  are  all  right. 
Farther  up,  and  the  incline  is  certainly  eighty- five  de- 
grees. My  horse  looses  his  front  feet,  but  a  jerk  at  the 
headstall  brings  him  down,  and  he  plunges  past  me  to  be 
caught  by  an  Indian  at  the  top  of  the  trail.  For  a  mo- 
ment we  breathe,  and  then  mount. 

Before  us  is  a  great  flat  plain  blackened  by  fire,  and 
with  the  grass  still  burning.  Away  in  the  distance,  in  the 
shimmer  of  the  air  waves,  are  figures. 

"Maybe  so  dey  Sioux,"  says  Wolf -Voice.  And  we 
gallop  towards  them. 

"  What  will  you  do  if  they  are?"  I  ask. 

"  Stand  'em  off,"  replies  the  war-dog. 

Half  an  hour's  ride  showed  them  to  be  some  of  our 
Cheyennes.  All  about  the  plain  were  strewn  the  remains 
of  dead  cattle  (heads  and  horns,  half-butchered  carcasses, 
and  withal  a  rather  impressive  smell),  coyotes,  and  ravens 
— all  very  like  war.  These  Brules  must  have  lived  well. 
There  were  lodge  poles,  old  fires,  and  a  series  of  rifle  pits 
across  the  neck  of  land  which  the  Sioux  had  proposed  to 
defend;  medicine  poles,  and  near  them  the  sacrifices, 
among  which  was  food  dedicated  to  the  Great  Spirit,  but 
•eventually  consumed  by  the  less  exalted  members  of 
3 


34  PONY   TRACKS 

Casey's  command.  I  vandalized  a  stone  pipe  and  a  raw- 
hide stirrup. 

The  less  curious  members  of  our  band  had  gone  south, 
and  Wolf-Voice  and  I  rode  along  together.  We  discussed 
war,  and  I  remember  two  of  Wolf -Voice's  opinions. 
Speaking  of  infantry  and  their  method  of  righting,  he 
said : 

"  Dese  walk-a-heap  soldiers  dey  dig  hole — get  in — shoot 
heap  —  Injun  can't  do  nothin'  wid  'em  —  can't  kill  'em — 
can't  do  nothin'  but  jes  go  'way." 

Then,  explaining  why  the  Sioux  had  shown  bad  gen- 
eralship in  selecting  their  position,  he  turned  in  his  sad- 
dle, and  said,  "  De  big  guns  he  knock  'em  rifle  pit,  den 
de  calavy  lun  pas'  in  column  —  Injun  no  stop  calavy — 
kill  'em  heap,  but  no  stop  'em  —  den  de  walk-a-heap  dey 
come  too,  and  de  Sioux  dey  go  ober  de  bluffs."  And 
with  wild  enthusiasm  he  added,  "  De  Sioux  dey  go  to 
hell !"  That  prospect  seemed  to  delight  Mr.  Wolf-Voice 
immensely. 

It  was  a  weary  ride  over  the  black  and  smoking  plain. 
A  queer  mirage  was  said  by  my  Indian  to  be  the  Chey- 
enne scouts  coming  after  us.  Black  figures  of  animals 
walking  slowly  along  were  "  starving  bronchos  abandoned 
by  the  hostiles." 

"  Cowboy  he  catch  'em,"  said  Wolf-Voice. 

I  explained  that  Colonel  Offley  had  orders  not  to  allow 
any  citizens  to  cross  the  Cheyenne  River. 

"  Cowboy  he  go  give  um  dam  ;  he  come  alle  samee." 

And  I  thought  Wolf-Voice  was  probably  right. 

On  the  southern  edge  of  the  bluffs  of  the  mesa  we 
halted,  and  found  water  for  man  and  beast.  The  com- 
mand gradually  concentrated,  and  for  half  an  hour  we 
stood  on  the  high  points  scanning  the  great  flats  below, 
and  located   the  dust  of  the  retiring  hostile  column  and 


.  ::4 


LIEUTENANT   CASEY'S   LAST    SCOUT  37 

the  back  lying  scouts.  Lieutenant  Casey  had  positive 
orders  not  to  bring  on  an  engagement,  and  only  desired 
to  hang  on  their  flanks,  so  as  to  keep  Miles  familiar  with 
the  hostile  movements.  A  courier  started  on  his  lonely 
ride  back  with  a  note  for  the  major-general.  Our  scouts 
were  flying  about  far  down  the  valley,  and  we  filed  off 
after  them.  Presently  a  little  column  of  dust  follows  a 
flying  horseman  towards  us.  On,  on  he  comes.  The 
scouts  grow  uneasy  ;  wild  creatures  they  are,  with  the 
suspicion  of  a  red  deer  and  the  stealth  of  a  panther. 

The  Sioux  have  fired  on  our  scouts.  Off  we  go  at  a 
trot,  scattering  out,  unslinging  our  guns,  and  the  air  full 
of  fight.  I  ride  by  Casey,  and  see  he  is  troubled.  The 
orders  in  his  pocket  do  not  call  for  a  fight.  Can  he  hold 
these  wild  warriors  ? 

"  Struthers,  we  have  got  to  hold  these  men,"  said 
Casey,  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  was  full  of  meaning.  To 
shorten  the  story,  our  men  were  at  last  gotten  into 
ranks,  and  details  made  to  cover  the  advance.  The  hos- 
tiles  were  evidently  much  excited.  Little  clouds  of  dust 
whirling  hither  and  thither  showed  where  the  opposing 
scouts  were  shadowing  each  other.  The  sun  was  waning, 
and  yet  we  spurred  our  weary  horses  on  towards  the 
enemy.  Poor  beasts!  no  food  and  too  much  exercise 
since  daylight. 

The  Cheyennes  were  uneasy,  and  not  at  all  pleased 
with  this  scheme  of  action.  What  could  they  know 
about  the  orders  in  Lieutenant  Casey's  pocket,  prompted 
by  a  commanding  general  thinking  of  a  thousand  and  one 
interests,  and  with  telegrams  from  Washington  directing 
the  avoidance  of  an  Indian  war? 

Old-soldier  Thompson  even,  with  all  his  intelligence 
and  knowledge  of  things,  felt  the  wild  Berserker  battle 
valor,  which  he  smothered  with   difficulty,  and  confined 


38  PONY   TRACKS 

himself  to  potent  remarks  and  spurring  of  old  Piegan. 
He  said:  "This  is  a  new  kind  of  war.  Them  Injuns 
don't  understand  it,  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't 
nuther.  The  Injuns  say  they  have  come  all  the  way 
from  Tongue  River,  and  are  going  back  poor.  Can't  get 
Sioux  horses,  can't  kill  Sioux,"  and  in  peroration  he  con- 
firmed his  old  impression  that  "  this  is  a  new  kind  of 
war";  and  then  relapsed  into  reveries  of  what  things  used 
to  be  before  General  Miles  invented  this  new  kind 
of  war. 

In  our  immediate  front  was  a  heavy  body  of  Sioux 
scouts.  Lieutenant  Casey  was  ahead.  Men  broke  from 
our  ranks,  but  were  held  with  difficulty  by  Struthers  and 
Getty.  Back  comes  Casey  at  a  gallop.  He  sees  the 
crisis,  and  with  his  hand  on  his  six  -  shooter,  says,  "  I  will 
shoot  the  first  man  through  the  head  who  falls  out  of  the 
ranks."  A  mutiny  is  imminent  in  the  Pine  Ridge  con- 
tingent, but  the  diplomat  Struthers  brings  order  at  last, 
and  we  file  off  down  the  hills  to  the  left,  and  stop  by  a 
stream,  while  Casey  goes  back  and  meets  a  body  of 
Sioux  on  a  high  hill  for  a  powwow.  I  watched  through  a 
glass,  and  the  sun  went  down  as  they  talked.  We  had 
orders  not  to  remove  our  saddles,  and  stood  in  the  line 
nervously  expecting  anything  imaginable  to  happen. 
The  daring  of  Casey  in  this  case  is  simply  an  instance  of 
a  hundred  such,  and  the  last  one  cost  him  his  life.  By 
his  prompt  measures  with  his  own  men,  and  by  his  cour- 
age in  going  among  the  Sioux  to  powwow,  he  averted  a 
bloody  battle,  and  obeyed  his  orders.  There  was  one 
man  between  two  banks  of  savage  warriors  who  were 
fairly  frothing  at  the  mouth  —  a  soldier ;  the  sun  will 
never  shine  upon  a  better. 

At  last,  after  an  interminable  time,  he  came  away. 
Far  away  to  the  right  are  two  of  our  scouts  driving  two 


1 


THE   HOTCHKISS   GUN 


LIEUTENANT   CASEY'S    LAST    SCOUT  41 

beeves.     We  see  the  bright  blaze  of  the  six-shooters,  the 
steers  tumble,  and  hunger  is  no  longer  one  of  our  woes. 

The  tired  horses  are  unsaddled,  to  eat  and  drink  and 
roll.  We  lay  dry  cotton-wood  limbs  on  the  fires,  heavy 
pickets  are  told  off,  and  our  "  bull  meat  M  is  cooked  in  the 
primitive  style.  Old  Wolf-Voice  and  another  scout  are 
swinging  six  ribs  on  a  piece  of  rawhide  over  a  fire,  and 
later  he  brings  me  a  rib  and  a  little  bit  of  coffee  from  a 
roll  in  his  handkerchief.  I  thought  him  a  "  brick,"  and 
mystified  him  by  telling  him  so. 

Three  or  four  Brules  are  let  in  through  our  pickets,  and 
come  "  wagging  their  tails,"  as  Two-Moons  says,  but  add- 
ing, "  Don't  you  trust  the  Sioux."  They  protest  their 
good  intentions,  borrow  tobacco,  and  say  Lieutenant  Casey 
can  send  in  a  wagon  for  commissaries  to  Pine  Ridge,  and 
also  that  I  can  go  through  their  lines  with  it.  Were 
there  ever  greater  liars  on  earth? 

I  sat  near  the  fire  and  looked  intently  at  one  human 
brute  opposite,  a  perfect  animal,  so  far  as  I  could  see. 
Never  was  there  a  face  so  replete  with  human  depravity, 
stolid,  ferocious,  arrogant,  and  all  the  rest  —  ghost -shirt, 
war-paint,  feathers,  and  arms.  As  a  picture,  perfect ;  as  a 
reality,  horrible.  Presently  they  go  away,  and  we  prepare 
for  the  night.  This  preparing  for  the  night  is  a  rather 
simple  process.  I  have  stolen  my  saddle  blanket  from 
my  poor  horse,  and,  with  this  laid  on  the  ground,  I  try 
my  saddle  in  four  or  five  different  positions  in  its  capacity 
of  pillow.  The  inventor  of  the  Whitman  tree  never  con- 
sidered this  possible  use  of  his  handiwork,  or  he  might 
have  done  better.  I  next  button  the  lower  three  buttons 
of  my  overcoat,  and  thus  wrapped  "  I  lie  down  to  pleas- 
ant dreams  " — of  rheumatism. 

*  An  hour  later  and  the  fires  go  down.     Black  forms  pass 
like  uneasy  spirits,  and  presently  you  find  yourself  thrash- 


42  PONY   TRACKS 

ing  around  in  the  underbrush  across  the  river  after  branch- 
es to  feed  that  insatiable  fire.  One  comrade  breaks 
through  the  ice  and  gets  wet,  and  inelegant  remarks  come 
from  the  shadowy  blackness  under  the  river -banks.  I 
think  a  man  shouldn't  use  such  language  even  under  such 
circumstances,  but  I  also  think  very  few  men  wouldn't. 
A  chilling  wind  now  adds  to  the  misery  of  the  situation, 
and  the  heat  of  the  fire  goes  off  in  a  cloud  of  sparks  to 
the  No  Man's  Land  across  the  river.  After  smoking  a 
pipe  for  two  hours  your  mouth  is  raw  and  your  nervous 
system  shattered,  so  nothing  is  left  but  to  sit  calmly 
down  and  just  suffer.  You  can  hate  the  Chinese  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world,  who  are  now  enjoying  the  rays  of 
the  sun. 

And  morning  finds  you  in  the  saddle.  It  always  does. 
I  don't  know  how  it  is — a  habit  of  life,  I  suppose.  Morn- 
ings ought  to  find  me  cosily  ensconced  in  a  good  bed,  but 
in  retrospect  they  seem  always  to  be  in  the  saddle,  with  a 
good  prospect  of  all  day  ahead,  and  evening  finds  me  with 
a  chunk  of  bull  meat  and  without  blankets,  until  one  fine 
day  we  come  to  our  wagons,  our  Sibleys,  and  the  little 
luxuries  of  the  mess  chest. 

The  next  morning  I  announced  my  intention  of  going 
to  Pine  Ridge  Agency,  which  is  twenty-five  miles  away. 
Mr.  Thompson,  two  scouts,  and  a  Swedish  teamster  are  to 
go  in  for  provisions  and  messages.  Mr.  Thompson  got  in 
the  wagon.  I  expressed  my  astonishment  at  this  and 
the  fact  that  he  had  no  carbines,  as  we  expected  to  go 
through  the  hostile  pickets  and  camp.  He  said,  "  If  I 
can't  talk  them  Injuns  out  of  killin'  me,  I  reckon  I'll  have 
to  go."  I  trotted  along  with  Red-Bear  and  Hairy-Arm, 
and  a  mile  and  a  half  ahead  went  the  courier,  Wells. 
Poor  man !  in  two  hours  he  lay  bleeding  in  the  road,  with 
a  bullet  through  the  hips,  and  called  two  days  for  water 


LIEUTENANT   CASEY'S   LAST   SCOUT  43 

before  he  "  struck  the  long  trail  to  the  kingdom  come,"  as 
the  cowboys  phrase  it. 

We  could  see  two  black  columns  of  smoke,  which  we 
did  not  understand.  After  we  had  gone  eight  or  ten 
miles,  and  were  just  crossing  a  ravine,  we  saw  a  Sioux 
buck  on  a  little  hill  just  ahead,  out  of  pistol-shot.  He  im- 
mediately rode  the  "  danger  signal."  Red-Bear  turned  his 
horse  in  the  "  peace  sign,"  and  advanced.  We  drove  over 
the  ravine,  and  halted.  I  dismounted.  Six  young  Brule 
Sioux  rose  out  of  the  ground,  and  rode  up  to  Red-Bear, 
and  the  hills  were  full  of  pickets  to  the  right  and  left. 
We  waited  to  hear  the  result  of  Red-Bear's  conversation, 
when  he  presently  came  back  and  spoke  to  Thompson  in 
Cheyenne.  I  looked  at  him  ;  his  eyes  were  snapping,  and 
his  facial  muscles  twitched  frightfully.  This  was  unusual, 
and  I  knew  that  things  were  not  well. 

"  Red -Bear  says  we  will  have  to  go  back,"  explained 
Thompson  ;  and  turning  to  Red-Bear  he  requested  that 
two  Sioux  might  come  closer,  and  talk  with  us.  Things 
looked  ominous  to  me,  not  understanding  Cheyenne, 
which  was  being  talked.  "  This  is  a  bad  hole,  and 
I  reckon  our  cake  is  dough  right  here,"  said  Thomp- 
son. 

Hairy-Arm's  face  was  impassive,  but  his  dark  eyes  wan- 
dered from  Brule  to  Brule  with  devilish  calculation.  Two 
young  bucks  came  up,  and  one  asked  Thompson  for  to- 
bacco, whereat  he  was  handed  a  package  of  Durham  by 
Thompson,  which  was  not  returned. 

"  It's  lucky  for  me  that  tobacco  ain't  a  million  dollars," 
sighed  Thompson. 

Another  little  buck  slipped  up  behind  me,  whereat  Mr. 
Thompson  gave  me  a  warning  look.  Turning,  I  advanced 
on  him  quickly  (I  wanted  to  be  as  near  as  possible,  not 
being   armed),  and    holding    out    my  hand,   said,  "  How, 


44  PONY   TRACKS 

colah?"  He  did  not  like  to  take  it,  but  he  did,  and  I  was 
saved  the  trouble  of  further  action. 

"  We'll  never  get  this  wagon  turned  around,"  suggested 
Mr.  Thompson,  as  the  teamster  whipped  up ;  but  we  did. 
And  as  we  commenced  our  movement  on  Casey's  camp, 
Mr.  Thompson  said,  "  Go  slow  now ;  don't  run,  or  they'll 
sure  shoot." 

"  Gemme  gun,"  said  the  little  scout  Red-Bear,  and  we 
all  got  our  arms  from  the  wagon. 

There  was  no  suspense  now.  Things  had  begun  to 
happen.  A  little  faster,  yet  faster,  we  go  up  the  little 
banks  of  the  coulee,  and,  ye  gods !  what !  —  five  fully 
armed,  well -mounted  cowboys  —  a  regular  rescue  scene 
from  Buffalo  Bill's  show. 

"  Go  back  !"  shouted  Thompson. 

Bang !  bang  !  bang  !  and  the  bullets  whistle  around  and 
kick  up  the  dust.     Away  we  go. 

Four  bucks  start  over  the  hills  to  our  right  to  flank 
us.     Red-Bear  talked  loudly  in  Cheyenne. 

Thompson  repeated,"  Red-Bear  says  if  any  one  is  hit,  get 
off  in  the  grass  and  lie  down  ;  we  must  all  hang  together." 

We  all  yelled,  "  We  will."    . 

A  well-mounted  man  rode  like  mad  ahead  of  the  la- 
boring team  horses  to  carry  the  news  to  the  scout  camp. 
The  cowboys,  being  well  mounted,  could  easily  have  got- 
ten away,  but  they  stuck  like  true  blues. 

Here  is  where  the  great  beauty  of  American  character 
comes  out.  Nothing  can  be  taken  seriously  by  men  used 
to  danger.  Above  the  pounding  of  the  horses  and  the 
rattle  of  the  wagon  and  through  the  dust  came  the  cow- 
boy song  from  the  lips  of  Mr.  Thompson  : 

"  Roll  your  tail, 
And  roll  her  high  ; 


LIEUTENANT   CASEY'S   LAST   SCOUT  47 

We'll  all  be  angels 
By-and-by." 

We  deployed  on  the  flanks  of  the  wagon  so  that  the 
team  horses  might  not  be  shot,  which  would  have  stopped 
the  whole  outfit,  and  we  did  ten  miles  at  a  record-break- 
ing gallop.  We  struck  the  scout  camp  in  a  blaze  of  ex- 
citement. The  Cheyennes  were  in  war-paint,  and  the 
ponies'  tails  were  tied  up  and  full  of  feathers.  Had  the 
Sioux  materialized  at  that  time,  Mr.  Casey  would  have 
had  his  orders  broken  right  there. 

After  a  lull  in  the  proceedings,  Mr.  Thompson  con- 
fided to  me  that  "  the  next  time  I  go  to  war  in  a  wagon 
it  will  put  the  drinks  on  me  "  ;  and  he  saddled  Piegan, 
and  patted  his  neck  in  a  way  which  showed  his  gratifi- 
cation at  the  change  in  transport.  We  pulled  out  again 
for  the  lower  country,  and  as  our  scouts  had  seen  the 
dust  of  Colonel  Sanford's  command,  we  presently  joined 
them. 

Any  remarks  made  to  Mr.  Thompson  on  the  tobacco 
subject  are  taken  seriously,  and  he  has  intimated  to  me 
a  quiet  yearning  for  a  shot  at  "  the  particular  slit-mouthed 
Brule  who  got  away  with  that  Durham." 

How  we  awoke  next  morning  with  the  sleet  freezing 
in  our  faces,  and  how  we  made  camp  in  the  blizzard,  and 
borrowed  Sibley  stoves  of  the  soldiers,  and  how  we  were 
at  last  comfortable,  and  spent  New-Year's  Eve  in  a  prop- 
er manner,  is  of  little  interest. 

I  was  awakened  at  a  late  hour  that  night  by  Captain 
Baldwin,  of  General  Miles's  staff,  and  told  to  saddle  up 
for  a  night's  ride  to  Pine  Ridge.  This  was  the  end  of 
my  experience  with  Lieutenant  Casey  and  his  gallant 
corps.  We  shook  hands  cheerily  in  the  dim  candle-light 
of  the  tepee,  and  agreeing  to  meet  in  New  York  at  some 


48  PONY   TRACKS 

not  distant  day,  I  stepped  out  from  the  Sibley,  mounted, 
and  rode  away  in  the  night. 

Three  days  later  I  had  eaten  my  breakfast  on  the  din- 
ing-car, and  had  settled  down  to  a  cigar  and  a  Chicago 
morning  paper.  The  big  leads  at  the  top  of  the  column 
said,  "  Lieutenant  E.  W.  Casey  Shot."  Casey  shot !  I 
look  again.  Yes ;  despatches  from  head-quarters — a  fact 
beyond  question. 

A  nasty  little  Brule  Sioux  had  made  his  coup,  and  shot 
away  the  life  of  a  man  who  would  have  gained  his  stars 
in  modern  war  as  naturally  as  most  of  his  fellows  would 
their  eagles.  He  had  shot  away  the  life  of  an  accom- 
plished man ;  the  best  friend  the  Indians  had ;  a  man 
who  did  not  know  "  fear"  ;  a  young  man  beloved  by  his 
comrades,  respected  by  his  generals  and  by  the  Secretary 
of  War.  The  squaws  of  another  race  will  sing  the  death- 
song  of  their  benefactor,  and  woe  to  the  Sioux  if  the 
Northern  Cheyennes  get  a  chance  to  coup  ! 

"  Try  to  avoid  bloodshed,"  comes  over  the  wires  from 
Washington.  "  Poor  savages  !"  comes  the  plaintive  wail 
of  the  sentimentalist  from  his  place  of  security ;  but  who 
is  to  weep  for  the  men  who  hold  up  a  row  of  brass  but- 
tons for  any  hater  of  the  United  States  to  fire  a  gun  at  ? 
Are  the  squaws  of  another  race  to  do  the  mourning  for 
American  soldiers?  Are  the  men  of  another  race  to  hope 
for  vengeance  ?     Bah  ! 

I  sometimes  think  Americans  lack  a  virtue  which  the 
military  races  of  Europe  possess.  Possibly  they  may  nev- 
er need  it.  I  hope  not.  American  soldiers  of  our  fron- 
tier days  have  learned  not  to  expect  sympathy  in  the 
East,  but  where  one  like  Casey  goes  down  there  are  many 
places  where  Sorrow  will  spread  her  dusky  pinions  and 
the  light  grow  dim. 


THE   SIOUX  OUTBREAK   IN  SOUTH   DAKOTA 

We  discussed  the  vague  reports  of  the  Wounded  Knee 
fight  in  the  upper  camps  of  the  cordon,  and  old  hands 
said  it  could  be  no  ordinary  affair  because  of  the  large 
casualty.  Two  days  after  I  rode  into  the  Pine  Ridge 
Agency,  very  hungry  and  nearly  frozen  to  death,  having 
ridden  with  Captain  Baldwin,  of  the  staff,  and  a  Mr.  Miller 
all  night  long.  I  had  to  look  after  a  poor  horse,  and  see 
that  he  was  groomed  and  fed,  which  require  considerable 
tact  and  "  hustling  "  in  a  busy  camp.  Then  came  my 
breakfast.  That  struck  me  as  a  serious  matter  at  the 
time.  There  were  wagons  and  soldiers — the  burial  party 
going  to  the  Wounded  Knee  to  do  its  solemn  duty.  I 
wanted  to  go  very  much.  I  stopped  to  think ;  in  short,  I 
hesitated,  and  of  course  was  "  lost,"  for  after  breakfast 
they  had  gone.  Why  did  I  not  follow  them  ?  Well,  my 
natural  prudence  had  been  considerably  strengthened  a 
few  days  previously  by  a  half-hour's  interview  with  six 
painted  Brule  Sioux,  who  seemed  to  be  in  command  of 
the  situation.  To  briefly  end  the  matter,  the  burial  party 
was  fired  on,  and  my  confidence  in  my  own  good  judg- 
ment was  vindicated  to  my  own  satisfaction. 

I  rode  over  to  the  camp  of  the  Seventh  United  States 
Cavalry,  and  met  all  the  officers,  both  wounded  and 
well,  and  a  great  many  of  the  men.  They  told  me  their 
stories  in  that  inimitable  way  which  is  studied  art  with 
warriors.  To  appreciate  brevity  you  must  go  to  a  sol- 
4 


50  PONY    TRACKS 

dier.  He  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  points  to  the  bridge 
of  his  nose,  which  has  had  a  piece  cut  out  by  a  bullet, 
and  says,  "  Rather  close,  but  don't  amount  to  much." 
An  inch  more,  and  some  youngster  would  have  had  his 
ipromotion. 

I  shall  not  here  tell  the  story  of  the  Seventh  Cavalry 
fight  with  Big  Foot's  band  of  Sioux  on  the  Wounded 
Knee  ;  that  has  been  done  in  the  daily  papers  ;  but  I 
will  recount  some  small-talk  current  in  the  Sibley  tepees, 
or  the  "  white  man's  war  tents,"  as  the  Indians  call  them. 

Lying  on  his  back,  with  a  bullet  through  the  body, 
Lieutenant  Mann  grew  stern  when  he  got  to  the  critical 
point  in  his  story.  "■  I  saw  three  or  four  young  bucks 
drop  their  blankets,  and  I  saw  that  they  were  armed. 
1  Be  ready  to  fire,  men  ;  there  is  trouble.'  There  was  an 
instant,  and  then  we  heard  sounds  of  firing  in  the  centre 
of  the  Indians.  '  Fire !'  I  shouted,  and  we  poured  it  into 
them." 

"  Oh  yes,  Mann,  but  the  trouble  began  when  the  old 
medicine-man  threw  the  dust  in  the  air.  That  is  the  old 
Indian  signal  of  '  defiance,'  and  no  sooner  had  he  done 
that  act  than  those  bucks  stripped  and  went  into  action. 
Just  before  that  some  one  told  me  that  if  we  didn't  stop 
that  old  man's  talk  he  would  make  trouble.  He  said  that 
the  white  men's  bullets  would  not  go  through  the  ghost 
shirts." 

Said  another  officer,  "  The  way  those  Sioux  worked 
those  Winchesters  was  beautiful."  Which  criticism,  you 
can  see,  was  professional. 

i\dded  another,  "  One  man  was  hit  early  in  the  firing, 
but  he  continued  to  pump  his  Winchester;  but  growing 
weaker  and  weaker,  and  sinking  down  gradually,  his  shots 
went  higher  and  higher,  until  his  last  went  straight  up  in 
the  air." 


lltftlISi 


IN  THE  TRENCHES 


THE  SIOUX  OUTBREAK  JN  SOUTH  DAKOTA     53 

"  Those  Indians  were  plumb  crazy.  Now,  for  instance, 
did  you  notice  that  before  they  fired  they  raised  their 
arms  to  heaven  ?     That  was  devotional." 

"  Yes,  captain,  but  they  got  over  their  devotional  mood 
after  the  shooting  was  over,"  remonstrated  a  cynic. 
"  When  I  passed  over  the  field  after  the  fight  one  young 
warrior  who  was  near  to  his  death  asked  me  to  take  him 
over  to  the  medicine-man's  side,  that  he  might  die  with 
his  knife  in  the  old  conjurer's  heart.  He  had  seen  that 
the  medicine  was  bad,  and  his  faith  in  the  ghost  shirt  had 
vanished.  There  was  no  doubt  but  that  every  buck  there 
thought  that  no  bullet  could  touch  him." 

"  Well,"  said  an  officer,  whose  pipe  was  working  into  a 
reflective  mood,  "  there  is  one  thing  which  I  learned,  and 
that  is  that  you  can  bet  that  the  private  soldier  in  the 
United  States  army  will  fight.  He'll  fight  from  the  drop 
of  the  hat  anywhere  and  in  any  place,  and  he'll  fight  till 
you  call  time.  I  never  in  my  life  saw  Springfield  carbines 
worked  so  industriously  as  at  that  place.  I  noticed  one 
young  fellow,  and  his  gun  seemed  to  just  blaze  all  the 
while.     Poor  chap  !  he's  mustered  out  for  good." 

I  saw  the  scout  who  had  his  nose  cut  off.  He  came  in 
to  get  shaved.  His  face  was  covered  with  strips  of  court- 
plaster,  and  when  informed  that  it  would  be  better  for 
him  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  a  shave,  he  reluctantly  con- 
sented. He  had  ridden  all  day  and  been  in  the  second 
day's  fight  with  his  nose  held  on  by  a  few  strips  of  plas- 
ter, and  he  did  not  see  just  why  he  could  not  be  shaved; 
but  after  being  talked  to  earnestly  by  a  half-dozen  friends 
he  succumbed. 

"  What  became  of  the  man  who  did  that  ?"  I  asked  of  him. 

He  tapped  his  Winchester  and  said,  "  Oh,  I  got  him  all 
right !" 

I  went  into  the  hospital  tents  and  saw  the  poor  fellows 


54  PONY   TRACKS 

lying  on  the  cots,  a  little  pale  in  the  face,  and  with  a 
drawn  look  about  the  mouth  and  eyes.  That  is  the  seri- 
ous part  of  soldiering.  No  excitement,  no  crowd  of  cheer- 
ing comrades,  no  shots  and  yells  and  din  of  battle.  A  few 
watchful  doctors  and  Red  Cross  stewards  with  bottles  and 
bandages,  and  the  grim  spectre  of  the  universal  enemy 
hovering  over  all,  and  ready  to  dart  down  on  any  man  on 
the  cots  who  lay  quieter  and  whose  face  was  more  pale 
than  his  fellows. 

I  saw  the  Red  Cross  ambulances  draw  up  in  line,  and 
watched  the  wounded  being  loaded  into  them.  I  saw 
poor  Garlington.  His  blond  mustache  twitched  under 
the  process  of  moving,  and  he  looked  like  a  man  whose 
mustache  wouldn't  twitch  unnecessarily.  Lieutenant  Haw- 
thorne, who  was  desperately  shot  in  the  groin  while  work- 
ing the  little  Hotchkiss  cannon,  turned  his  eyes  as  they 
moved  Garlington  from  the  next  cot,  and  then  waited  pa- 
tiently for  his  own  turn. 

I  was  talking  with  old  Captain  Capron,  who  command- 
ed the  battery  at  the  fight — a  grim  old  fellow,  with  a  red- 
lined  cape  overcoat,  and  nerve  enough  for  a  hundred-ton 
gun.  He  said:  "When  Hawthorne  was  shot  the  gun  was 
worked  by  Corporal  Weimert,  while  Private  Hertzog  car- 
ried Hawthorne  from  the  field  and  then  returned  to  his 
gun.  The  Indians  redoubled  their  fire  on  the  men  at  the 
gun,  but  it  seemed  only  to  inspire  the  corporal  to  renewed 
efforts.  Oh,  my  battery  was  well  served,"  continued  the 
captain,  as  he  put  his  hands  behind  his  back  and  looked 
far  away. 

This  professional  interest  in  the  military  process  of  kill- 
ing men  sometimes  rasps  a  citizen's  nerves.  To  the  cap- 
tain everything  else  was  a  side  note  of  little  consequence 
so  long  as  his  guns  had  been  worked  to  his  entire  satisfac- 
tion.    That  was  the  point. 


.» 


THE    SIOUX   OUTBREAK   IN   SOUTH   DAKOTA  "         57 

At  the  mention  of  the  name  of  Captain  Wallace,  the 
Sibley  became  so  quiet  that  you  could  hear  the  stove 
draw  and  the  wind  wail  about  the  little  canvas  town.  It 
was  always  "  Poor  Wallace !"  and  "  He  died  like  a  soldier, 
with  his  empty  six-shooter  in  his  right  hand,  shot  through 
the  body,  and  with  two  jagged  wounds  in  his  head." 

I  accosted  a  soldier  who  was  leaning  on  a  crutch  while 
he  carried  a  little  bundle  in  his  right  hand.  "  You  bet 
I'm  glad  to  get  out  in  the  sunlight;  that  old  hospital  tent 
was  getting  mighty  tiresome." 

"Where  was  I  shot?"  He  pointed  to  his  hip.  "Only 
a  flesh  wound  ;  this  is  my  third  wound.  My  time  is  out 
in  a  few  days  ;  but  I'm  going  to  re-enlist,  and  I  hope  I'll 
get  back  here  before  this  trouble  is  over.  I  want  to  get 
square  with  these  Injuns."  You  see,  there  was  considera- 
ble human  nature  in  this  man's  composition. 

The  ambulance  went  off  down  the  road,  and  the  burial 
party  came  back.  The  dead  were  for  the  time  forgotten, 
and  the  wounded  were  left  to  fight  their  own  battles  with 
stitches  and  fevers  and  suppuration.  The  living  toiled  in 
the  trenches,  or  stood  out  their  long  term  on  the  pickets, 
where  the  moon  looked  down  on  the  frosty  landscape,  and 
the  cold  wind  from  the  north  searched  for  the  crevices  in 
their  blankets. 


AN    OUTPOST   OF   CIVILIZATION 

The  hacienda  San  Jose  de  Bavicora  lies  northwest 
from  Chihuahua  225  of  the  longest  miles  on  the  map. 
The  miles  run  up  long  hills  and  dive  into  rocky  canons  ; 
they  stretch  over  never-ending  burnt  plains,  and  across 
the  beds  of  tortuous  rivers  thick  with  scorching  sand. 
And  there  are  three  ways. to  make  this  travel.  Some  go 
on  foot — which  is  best,  if  one  has  time — like  the  Tahura- 
maras ;  others  take  it  ponyback,  after  the  Mexican  man- 
ner ;  and  persons  with  no  time  and  a  great  deal  of  money 
go  in  a  coach.  At  first  thought  this  last  would  seem  to 
be  the  best,  but  the  Guerrero  stage  has  never  failed  to  tip 
over,  and  the  company  make  you  sign  away  your  natural 
rights,  and  almost  your  immortal  soul,  before  they  will 
allow  you  to  embark.  So  it  is  not  the  best  way  at  all,  if 
I  may  judge  from  my  own  experience.  We  had  a  coach 
which  seemed  to  choose  the  steepest  hill  on  the  route, 
where  it  then  struck  a  stone,  which  heaved  the  coach, 
pulled  out  the  king-pin,  and  what  I  remember  of  the  oc- 
currence is  full  of  sprains  and  aches  and  general  gloom. 
Guerrero,  too,  is  only  three  -  fourths  of  the  way  to  Bavi- 
cora, and  you  can  only  go  there  if  Don  Gilberto,  the  pa- 
tron of  the  hacienda — or,  if  you  know  him  well  enough, 
"  Jack  " — will  take  you  in  the  ranch  coach. 

After  bumping  over  the  stones  all  day  for  five  days, 
through  a  blinding  dust,  we  were  glad  enough  when  we 
suddenly  came  out  of  the  tall  timber   in    the  mountain 


m 


n 


.  .<..*,■. ;  i 


AN    OUTPOST   OF    CIVILIZATION  61 

pass  and  espied  the  great  yellow  plain  of  Bavicora  stretch- 
ing to  the  blue  hills  of  the  Sierra.  In  an  hour's  ride  more, 
through  a  chill  wind,  we  were  at  the  ranch.  We  pulled 
up  at  the  entrance,  which  was  garnished  by  a  bunch  of 
cow-punchers,  who  regarded  us  curiously  as  we  pulled  our 
aching  bodies  and  bandaged  limbs  from  the  Concord  and 
limped  into  the  patio. 

To  us  was  assigned  the  room  of  honor,  and  after  shak- 
ing ourselves  down  on  a  good  bed,  with  mattress  and 
sheeting,  we  recovered  our  cheerfulness.  A  hot  toddy,  a 
roaring  fireplace,  completed  the  effect.  The  floor  was 
strewn  with  bear  and  wolf  skin  rugs  ;  it  had  pictures  and 
draperies  on  the  walls,  and  in  a  corner  a  wash-basin  and 
pitcher — so  rare  in  these  parts — was  set  on  a  stand,  grand- 
ly suggestive  of  the  refinements  of  luxury  we  had  attained 
to.  I  do  not  wish  to  convey  the  impression  that  Mexi- 
cans do  not  wash,  because  there  are  brooks  enough  in 
Mexico  if  they  want  to  use  them,  but  wash-basins  are  the 
advance-guards  of  progress,  and  we  had  been  on  the  out- 
posts since  leaving  Chihuahua. 

Jack's  man  William  had  been  ever-present,  and  admin- 
istered to  our  slightest  wish ;  his  cheerful  "  Good-mo'nin', 
gemmen,"  as  he  lit  the  fire,  recalled  us  to  life,  and  after 
a  rub-down  I  went  out  to  look  at  the  situation. 

Jack's  ranch  is  a  great  straggling  square  of  mud  walls 
enclosing  two  patios,  with  adobe  corrals  and  out-buildings, 
all  obviously  constructed  for  the  purposes  of  defence.  It 
was  built  in  1770  by  the  Jesuits,  and  while  the  English 
and  Dutch  were  fighting  for  the  possession  of  the  Mo- 
hawk Valley,  Bavicora  was  an  outpost  of  civilization,  as 
it  is  to-day.  Locked  in  a  strange  language,  on  parchment 
stored  in  vaults  in  Spain,  are  the  records  of  this  enter- 
prise. In  1840  the  good  fathers  were  murdered  by  the 
Apaches,  the  country  devasted  and  deserted,  and  the  cat- 


62  PONY   TRACKS 

tie  and  horses  hurried  to  the  mountain  lairs  of  the  Apache 
devils.  The  place  lay  idle  and  unreclaimed  for  years, 
threatening  to  crumble  back  to  the  dust  of  which  it  was 
made.  Near  by  are  curious  mounds  on  the  banks  of  a 
dry  arroyo.  The  punchers  have  dug  down  into  these 
ruins,  and  found  adobe  walls,  mud  plasterings,  skeletons, 
and  bits  of  woven  goods.  They  call  them  the  "  Monte- 
zumas."  All  this  was  to  be  changed.  In  1882  an  Amer- 
ican cowboy — which  was  Jack — accompanied  by  two  com- 
panions, penetrated  south  from  Arizona,  and  as  he  looked 
from  the  mountains  over  the  fair  plain  of  Bavicora,  he 
said,  "  I  will  take  this."  The  Apaches  were  on  every 
hand  ;  the  country  was  terrorized  to  the  gates  of  Chihua- 
hua. The  stout  heart  of  the  pioneer  was  not  disturbed, 
and  he  made  his  word  good.  By  purchase  he  acquired 
the  plain,  and  so  much  more  that  you  could  not  ride 
round  it  in  two  weeks.  He  moved  in  with  his  hardy 
punchers,  and  fixed  up  Bavicora  so  it  would  be  habitable. 
He  chased  the  Indians  off  his  ranch  whenever  he  "  cut 
their  sign."  After  a  while  the  Mexican  vaqiieros  from  be- 
low overcame  their  terror,  when  they  saw  the  American 
hold  his  own  with  the  Apache  devils,  and  by  twos  and 
threes  and  half-dozens  they  came  up  to  take  service,  and 
now  there  are  two  hundred  who  lean  on  Jack  and  call  him 
patron.  They  work  for  him  and  they  follow  him  on  the 
Apache  trail,  knowing  he  will  never  run  away,  believing 
in  his  beneficence  and  trusting  to  his  courage. 

I  sat  on  a  mud  -  bank  and  worked  away  at  a  sketch 
of  the  yellow  sunlit  walls  of  the  mud  -  ranch,  with  the 
great  plain  running  away  like  the  ocean  into  a  violet 
streak  under  the  blue  line  of  the  Pefta  Blanca.  In  the 
rear  rises  a  curious  broken  formation  of  hills  like  mill- 
ions   of   ruins    of    Rhine    castles.      The    lobos*   howl    by 

*  Wolves. 


EL   PATRON 


AN    OUTPOST    OF    CIVILIZATION  65 

night,  and  the  Apache  is  expected  to  come  at  any  in- 
stant. The  old  criada  or  serving- worn  an  who  makes  the 
beds  saw  her  husband  killed  at  the  front  door,  and  every 
man  who  goes  out  of  the  patio  has  a  large  assortment  of 
the  most  improved  artillery  on  his  person.  Old  carts 
with  heavy  wooden  wheels  like  millstones  stand  about. 
Brown  people  with  big  straw  hats  and  gay  serapes  lean 
lazily  against  the  gray  walls.  Little  pigs  carry  on  the 
contest  with  nature,  game-chickens  strut,  and  clumsy 
puppies  tumble  over  each  other  in  joyful  play ;  burros 
stand  about  sleepily,  only  indicating  life  by  suggestive 
movements  of  their  great  ears,  while  at  intervals  a  pony, 
bearing  its  lithe  rider,  steps  from  the  gate,  and,  breaking 
into  an  easy  and  graceful  lope,  goes  away  into  the  waste 
of  land. 

I  rose  to  go  inside,  and  while  I  gazed  I  grew  exalted  in 
the  impression  that  here,  in  the  year  of  1893,  I  had  redis- 
covered a  Fort  Laramie  after  Mr.  Parkman's  well-known 
description.  The  foreman,  Tom  Bailey,  was  dressed  in 
store  clothes,  and  our  room  had  bedsteads  and  a  wash- 
basin ;  otherwise  it  answered  very  well.  One  room  was 
piled  high  with  dried  meat,  and  the  great  stomachs  of 
oxen  filled  with  tallow ;  another  room  is  a  store  full  of 
goods  —  calicoes,  buckskin,  riatas,  yellow  leather  shoes, 
guns,  and  other  quaint  plunder  adapted  to  the  needs  of  a 
people  who  sit  on  the  ground  and  live  on  meat  and  corn- 
meal. 

"  Charlie  Jim,"  the  Chinese  cook,  has  a  big  room  with  a 
stove  in  it,  and  he  and  the  stove  are  a  never-ending  won- 
der to  all  the  folks,  and  the  fame  of  both  has  gone  across 
the  mountains  to  Sonora  and  to  the  south.  Charlie  is  an 
autocrat  in  his  curious  Chinese  way,  and  by  the  dignity  of 
his  position  as  Mr.  Jack's  private  cook,  and  his  unknown 
antecedents,  he   conjures  the   Mexicans  and  damns  the 

5 


66  PONY   TRACKS 

Texans,  which  latter  refuse  to  take  him  seriously  and  kill 
him,  as  they  would  a  "  proper"  man.  Charlie  Jim,  in  re- 
turn, entertains  ideas  of  Texans  which  he  secretes,  ex- 
cept when  they  dine  with  Jack,  when  he  may  be  heard 
to  mutter,  "Cake  and  pie  no  good  for  puncher,  make 
him  fat  and  lazy ";  and  when  he  crosses  the  patio  and 
they  fling  a  rope  over  his  foot,  he  becomes  livid,  and 
breaks  out,  "  Damn  puncher ;  damn  rope ;  rope  man  all 
same  horse ;  damn  puncher ;   no  good   that  way." 

The  patron  has  the  state  apartment,  and  no  one  goes 
there  with  his  hat  on  ;  but  the  relations  with  his  people 
are  those  of  a  father  and  children.  An  old  gray  man  ap- 
proaches ;  they  touch  the  left  arm  with  the  right — an  ab- 
breviated hug;  say  "  Buenos  dias,  patron!"  "  Buenos  dias, 
Don  Sabino !"  and  they  shake  hands.  A  California  sad- 
dle stands  on  a  rack  by  the  desk,  and  the  latter  is  lit- 
tered with  photographs  of  men  in  London  clothes  and 
women  in  French  dresses,  the  latter  singularly  out  of 
character  with  their  surroundings.  The  old  criada  squats 
silently  by  the  fireplace,  her  head  enveloped  in  her 
blue  rebozo,  and  deftly  rolls  her  cigarette.  She  aloney 
and  one  white  bull-dog,  can  come  and  go  without  re- 
straint. 

The  administrador,  which  is  Mr.  Tom  Bailey,  of  Texas, 
moves  about  in  the  discharge  of  his  responsibilities,  and 
they  are  universal;  anything  and  everything  is  his  work, 
from  the  negotiation  for  the  sale  of  five  thousand  head  of 
cattle  to  the  "  busting  "  of  a  bronco  which  no  one  else  can 
"  crawl." 

The  clerk  is  in  the  store,  with  his  pink  boy's  face,  a 
pencil  behind  his  ear,  and  a  big  sombrero,  trying  to  look 
as  though  he  had  lived  in  these  wilds  longer  than  at  San 
Francisco,  which  he  finds  an  impossible  part.  He  has  ac- 
quired the  language  and  the  disregard  of  time  necessary 


THE   ADMIN1STRAD0R   OF   SAN   JOSE   DE   BAVICORA 


AN    OUTPOST    OF    CIVILIZATION  69 

to  one  who  would  sell  a  real's  worth  of  cotton  cloth  to  a 
Mexican. 

The  forge  in  the  blacksmith's  shop  is  going,  and  one 
puncher  is  cutting  another  puncher's  hair  in  the  sunlight; 
ponies  are  being  lugged  in  on  the  end  of  lariats,  and 
thrown  down,  tied  fast,  and  left  in  a  convulsive  heap, 
ready  to  be  shod  at  the  disposition  of  their  riders. 

On  the  roof  of  the  house  are  two  or  three  men  looking 
and  pointing  to  the  little  black  specks  on  the  plain  far 
away,  which  are  the  cattle  going  into  the  lagunas  to 
drink. 

The  second  patio,  or  the  larger  one,  is  entered  by  a  nar- 
row passage,  and  here  you  find  horses  and  saddles  and 
punchers  coming  and  going,  saddling  and  unsaddling  their 
horses,  and  being  bucked  about  or  dragged  on  a  rope.  In 
the  little  doorways  to  the  rooms  of  the  men  stand-  women 
in  calico  dresses  and  blue  cotton  rebozos,  while  the  dogs 
and  pigs  lie  about,  and  little  brown  vaqueros  are  ripening 
in  the  sun.  In  the  rooms  you  find  pottery,  stone  metates 
for  grinding  the  corn,  a  fireplace,  a  symbol  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  some  serapes,  some  rope,  and  buckskin.  The 
people  sit  on  a  mat  on  the  floor,  and  make  cigarettes  out 
of  native  tobacco  and  corn-husks,  or  rolled  tortillas ;  they 
laugh  and  chat  in  low  tones,  and  altogether  occupy 
the  tiniest  mental  world,  hardly  larger  than  the  patio, 
and  not  venturing  beyond  the  little  mud  town  of  Temo- 
zachic,  forty  miles  over  the  hills.  Physically  the  men  vac- 
illate between  the  most  intense  excitement  and  a  coma- 
tose state  of  idleness,  where  all  is  quiet  and  slothful,  in 
contrast  to  the  mad  whirl  of  the  roaring  rodeo. 

In  the  haciendas  of  old  Mexico  one  will  find  the  law 
and  custom  of  the  feudal  days.  All  the  laws  of  Mexico 
are  in  protection  of  the  land -owner.  The  master  is  with- 
out restraint,   and  the   man  lives  dependent  on   his  ca- 


70  PONY   TRACKS 

price.  The  patron  of  Bavicora,  for  instance,  leases  land 
to  a  Mexican,  and  it  is  one  of  the  arrangements  that  he 
shall  drive  the  ranch  coach  to  Chihuahua  when  it  goes. 
All  lessees  of  land  are  obliged  to  follow  the  patron  to 
war,  and,  indeed,  since  the  common  enemy,  the  Apache, 
in  these  parts  is  as  like  to  harry  the  little  as  the  great,  it 
is  exactly  to  his  interest  to  wage  the  war.  Then,  too, 
comes  the  responsibility  of  the  patron  to  his  people.  He 
must  feed  them  in  the  famine,  he  must  arbitrate  their 
disputes,  and  he  must  lead  them  at  all  times.  If  through 
improvidence  their  work- cattle  die  or  give  out,  he  must 
restock  them,  so  that  they  may  continue  the  cultivation 
of  the  land,  all  of  which  is  not  altogether  profitable  in 
a  financial  way,  as  we  of  the  North  may  think,  where 
all  business  is  done  on  the  "  hold  you  responsible,  sir," 
basis*. 

The  vaqueros  make  their  own  saddles  and  reatas ;  only 
the  iron  saddle-rings,  the  rifles,  and  the  knives  come  from 
the  patron,  and  where  he  gets  them  God  alone  knows,  and 
the  puncher  never  cares.  No  doctor  attends  the  sick  or 
disabled,  old  women's  nursing  standing  between  life  and 
death.  The  Creator  in  His  providence  has  arranged  it 
so  that  simple  folks  are  rarely  sick,  and  a  sprained  ankle, 
a  bad  bruise  from  a  steer's  horn  or  a  pitching  horse,  are 
soon  remedied  by  rest  and  a  good  constitution.  At  times 
instant  and  awful  death  overtakes  the  puncher — a  horse 
in  a  gopher-hole,  a  mad  steer,  a  chill  with  a  knife,  a  blue 
hole  where  the  .45  went  in,  a  quicksand  closing  overhead, 
and  a  cross  on  a  hill-side  are  all. 

Never  is  a  door  closed.  Why  they  were  put  up  I  failed 
to  discover.  For  days  I  tried  faithfully  to  keep  mine 
shut,  but  every  one  coming  or  going  left  it  open,  so  that 
I  gave  it  up  in  despair.  There  are  only  two  windows  in 
the  ranch  of  San  Jose  de  Bavicora,  one  in  our  chamber 


A   HAIR-CUT   A   LA   PUNCHER 


AN    OUTPOST    OF   CIVILIZATION  73 

and  one  in  the  blacksmith's  shop,  both  opening  into  the 
court.  In  fact,  I  found  those  were  the  only  two  windows 
in  the  state,  outside  of  the  big  city.  The  Mexicans  find 
that  their  enemies  are  prone  to  shoot  through  these  aper- 
tures, and  so  they  have  accustomed  themselves  to  do 
without  them,  which  is  as  it  should  be,  since  it  removes 
the  temptation. 

One  night  the  patron  gave  a  baile.  The  vaqueros  all 
came  with  their  girls,  and  a  string  band  rendered  music 
with  a  very  dancy  swing.  I  sat  in  a  corner  and  observed 
the  man  who  wears  the  big  hat  and  who  throws  the  raw- 
hide as  he  cavorted  about  with  his  girl,  and  the  way  they 
dug  up  the  dust  out  of  the  dirt  floor  soon  put  me  to 
coughing.  "  Candles  shed  their  soft  lustre — and  tallow  " 
down  the  backs  of  our  necks,  and  the  band  scraped  and 
thrummed  away  in  a  most  serious  manner.  One  man  had 
a  harp,  two  had  primitive  fiddles,  and  one  a  guitar.  One 
old  fiddler  was  the  leader,  and  as  he  bowed  his  head  on 
his  instrument  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  off  him.  He 
had  come  from  Sonora,  and  was  very  old  ;  he  looked  as 
though  he  had  had  his  share  of  a  very  rough  life  ;  he  was 
never  handsome  as  a  boy,  I  am  sure,  but  the  weather  and 
starvation  and  time  had  blown  him  and  crumbled  him  into 
a  ruin  which  resembled  the  pre-existing  ape  from  which 
the  races  sprang.  If  he  had  never  committed  murder,  it 
was  for  lack  of  opportunity ;  and  Sonora  is  a  long  travel 
from  Plymouth  Rock. 

Tom  Bailey,  the  foreman,  came  round  to  me,  his  eyes 
dancing,  and  his  shock  of  hair  standing  up  like  a  Circas- 
sian beauty's,  and  pointing,  he  said,  "  Thar's  a  woman 
who's  prettier  than  a  speckled  pup;  put  your  twine  on 
her."  Then,  as  master  of  ceremonies,  he  straightened  up 
and  sang  out  over  the  fiddles  and  noise :  "  Dance,  thar, 
you  fellers,  or  you'll  git  the  gout." 


74  PONY   TRACKS 

In  an  adjoining  room  there  was  a  very  heavy  jug  of 
strong -water,  and  thither  the  men  repaired  to  pick  up,  so 
that  as  the  night  wore  on  their  brains  began  to  whirl  after 
their  legs,  and  they  whooped  at  times  in  a  way  to  put  one's 
nerves  on  edge.  The  band  scraped  the  harder  and  the 
dance  waxed  fast,  the  spurs  clinked,  and  bang,  bang,  bang 
went  the  Winchester  rifles  in  the  patio,  while  the  chorus 
"  Viva  el  patron  "  rang  around  the  room — the  Old  Guard 
was  in  action. 

We  sat  in  our  room  one  evening  when  in  filed  the  va- 
queros  and  asked  to  be  allowed  to  sing  for  the  patron. 
They  sat  on  my  bed  and  on  the  floor,  while  we  occupied 
the  other;  they  had  their  hats  in  their  hands,  and  their 
black,  dreamy  eyes  were  diverted  as  though  overcome  by 
the  magnificence  of  the  apartment.  They  hemmed  and 
coughed,  until  finally  one  man,  who  was  evidently  the 
leader,  pulled  himself  together  and  began,  in  a  high  fal- 
setto, to  sing;  after  two  or  three  words  the  rest  caught 
on,  and  they  got  through  the  line,  when  they  stopped ; 
thus  was  one  leading  and  the  others  following  to  the  end 
of  the  line.  It  was  strange,  wild  music — a  sort  of  general 
impression  of  a  boys'  choir  with  a  wild  discordance,  each 
man  giving  up  his  soul  as  he  felt  moved.  The  refrain  al- 
ways ended,  for  want  of  breath,  in  a  low,  expiring  howl, 
leaving  the  audience  in  suspense ;  but  quickly  they  get  at 
it  again,  and  the  rise  of  the  tenor  chorus  continues.  The 
songs  are  largely  about  love  and  women  and  doves  and 
flowers,  in  all  of  which  nonsense  punchers  take  only  a  per- 
functory interest  in  real  life. 

These  are  the  amusements  —  although  the  puncher  is 
always  roping  for  practice,  and  everything  is  fair  game 
for  his  skill;  hence  dogs,  pigs,  and  men  have  become  as 
expert  in  dodging  the  rope  as  the  vaqueros  are  in  throw- 
ing it.     A  mounted  man,  in  passing,  will  always  throw  his 


OF  -Wf 


AN    OUTPOST    OF    CIVILIZATION  77 

rope  at  one  sitting  in  a  doorway,  and  then  try  to  get  away 
before  he  can  retaliate  by  jerking  his  own  rope  over  his 
head.  I  have  seen  a  man  repair  to  the  roof  and  watch  a 
doorway  through  which  he  expected  some  comrade  to 
pass  shortly,  and  watch  for  an  hour  to  be  ready  to  drop 
his  noose  about  his  shoulders. 

The  ranch  fare  is  very  limited,  and  at  intervals  men  are 
sent  to  bring  back  a  steer  from  the  water-holes,  which  is 
dragged  to  the  front  door  and  there  slaughtered.  A  day 
of  feasting  ensues,  and  the  doorways  and  the  gutter-pipes 
and  the  corral  fences  are  festooned  with  the  beef  left  to 
dry  in  the  sun. 

There  is  the  serious  side  of  the  life.  The  Apache  is  an 
evil  which  Mexicans  have  come  to  regard  as  they  do  the 
meteoric  hail,  the  lightning,  the  drought,  and  any  other 
horror  not  to  be  averted.  They  quarrel  between  them- 
selves over  land  and  stock,  and  there  are  a  great  many 
men  out  in  the  mountains  who  are  proscribed  by  the  gov- 
ernment. Indeed,  while  we  journeyed  on  the  road  and 
were  stopping  one  night  in  a  little  mud  town,  we  were 
startled  by  a  fusillade  of  shots,  and  in  the  morning  were 
informed  that  two  men  had  been  killed  the  night  before, 
and  various  others  wounded.  At  another  time  a  Mexican, 
with  his  followers,  had  invaded  our  apartment  and  ex- 
pressed a  disposition  to  kill  Jack,  but  he  found  Jack  was 
willing  to  play  his  game,  and  gave  up  the  enterprise.  On 
the  ranch  the  men  had  discovered  some  dead  stock  which 
had  been  killed  with  a  knife.  Men  were  detailed  to  roam 
the  country  in  search  of  fresh  trails  of  these  cattle-killers. 
I  asked  the  foreman  what  would  happen  in  case  they 
found  a  trail  which  could  be  followed,  and  he  said,  "  Why> 
we  would  follow  it  until  we  came  up,  and  then  kill  them." 
If  a  man  is  to  "hold  down"  a  big  ranch  in  Northern 
Mexico  he  has   got   to   be  "  all   man,"  because  it    is  "  a 


78  PONY   TRACKS 

man's  job,"  as  Mr.  Bailey,  of  Los  Ojos,  said  —  and  he 
knows. 

Jack  himself  is  the  motive  force  of  the  enterprise,  and 
he  disturbs  the  quiet  of  this  waste  of  sunshine  by  his  pres- 
ence for  about  six  months  in  the  year.  With  his  strong 
spirit,  the  embodiment  of  generations  of  pioneers,  he 
faces  the  Apache,  the  marauder,  the  financial  risks.  He 
spurs  his  listless  people  on  to  toil,  he  permeates  every  de- 
tail, he  storms,  and  greater  men  than  he  have  sworn  like 
troopers  under  less  provocation  than  he  has  at  times  ;  but 
he  has  snatched  from  the  wolf  and  the  Indian  the  fair 
land  of  Bavicora,  to  make  it  fruitful  to  his  generation. 

There  lies  the  hacienda  San  Jose  de  Bavicora,  gray  and 
silent  on  the  great  plain,  with  the  mountain  standing 
guard  against  intruders,  and  over  it  the  great  blue  dome 
of  the  sky,  untroubled  by  clouds,  except  little  flecks  of 
vapor  which  stand,  lost  in  immensity,  burning  bright  like 
opals,  as  though  discouraged  from  seeking  the  mountains 
or  the  sea  whence  they  came.  The  marvellous  color 
of  the  country  beckons  to  the  painter  ;  its  simple,  natural 
life  entrances  the  blond  barbarian,  with  his  fevered  brain  ; 
and  the  gaudy  vaquero  and  his  trappings  and  his  pony  are 
the  actors  on  this  noble  stage.  But  one  must  be  appreci- 
ative of  it  all,  or  he  will  find  a  week  of  rail  and  a  week  of 
stage  and  a  week  of  horseback  all  too  far  for  one  to  travel 
to  see  a  shadow  across  the  moon. 


A   RODEO   AT   LOS    OJOS 

The  sun  beat  down  on  the  dry  grass,  and  the  punch- 
ers were  squatting  about  in  groups  in  front  of  the  strag- 
gling log  and  adobe  buildings  which  constituted  the  out- 
lying ranch  of  Los  Ojos. 

Mr.  Johnnie  Bell,  the  capitan  in  charge,  was  walking 
about  in  his  heavy  chaparras,  a  slouch  hat,  and  a  white 
"  biled  "  shirt.  He  was  chewing  his  long  yellow  mustache, 
and  gazing  across  the  great  plain  of  Bavicora  with  set  and 
squinting  eyes.  He  passed  us  and  repassed  us,  still  gazing 
out,  and  in  his  long  Texas  drawl  said,  "  Thar's  them  San 
Miguel  fellers." 

I  looked,  but  I  could  not  see  any  San  Miguel  fellows  in 
the  wide  expanse  of  land. 

"  Hyar,  crawl  some  horses,  and  we'll  go  out  and  meet 
'em,"  continued  Mr.  Bell ;  and,  suiting  the  action,  we 
mounted  our  horses  and  followed  him.  After  a  time  I 
made  out  tiny  specks  in  the  atmospheric  wave  which  rises 
from  the  heated  land,  and  in  half  an  hour  could  plainly 
make  out  a  cavalcade  of  horsemen.  Presently  breaking 
into  a  gallop,  which  movement  was  imitated  by  the  other 
party,  we  bore  down  upon  each  other,  and  only  stopped 
when  near  enough  to  shake  hands,  the  half-wild  ponies 
darting  about  and  rearing  under  the  excitement.  Greet- 
ings were  exchanged  in  Spanish,  and  the  peculiar  shoulder 
tap,  or  abbreviated  embrace,  was  indulged  in.  Doubtless 
a  part  of  our  outfit  was  as  strange  to  Governor  Terraza's 


8o  PONY   TRACKS 

men — for  he  is  the  patron  of  San  Miguel — as  they  were 
to  us. 

My  imagination  had  never  before  pictured  anything 
so  wild  as  these  leather-clad  vaqucros.  As  they  removed 
their  hats  to  greet  Jack,  their  unkempt  locks  blew  over 
their  faces,  back  off  their  foreheads,  in  the  greatest  dis- 
order. They  were  clad  in  terra-cotta  buckskin,  elaborately 
trimmed  with  white  leather,  and  around  their  lower  legs 
wore  heavy  cowhide  as  a  sort  of  legging.  They  were 
fully  armed,  and  with  their  jingling  spurs,  their  flapping 
ropes  and  buckskin  strings,  and  with  their  gay  scrapes 
tied  behind  their  saddles,  they  were  as  impressive  a  caval- 
cade of  desert -scamperers  as  it  has  been  my  fortune  to 
see.  Slowly  we  rode  back  to  the  corrals,  where  they  dis- 
mounted. 

Shortly,  and  unobserved  by  us  until  at  hand,  we  heard 
the  clatter  of  hoofs,  and,  leaving  in  their  wake  a  cloud  of 
dust,  a  dozen  punchers  from  another  outfit  bore  down 
upon  us  as  we  stood  under  the  ramada  of  the  ranch- 
house,  and  pulling  up  with  a  jerk,  which  threw  the  ponies 
on  their  haunches,  the  men  dismounted  and  approached, 
to  be  welcomed  by  the  master  of  the  rodeo. 

A  few  short  orders  were  given,  and  three  mounted  men 
started  down  to  the  springs,  and,  after  charging  about,  we 
could  see  that  they  had  roped  a  steer,  which  they  led, 
bawling  and  resisting,  to  the  ranch,  where  it  was  quickly 
thrown  and  slaughtered.  Turning  it  on  its  back,  after 
the  manner  of  the  old  buffalo-hunters,  it  was  quickly  dis- 
robed and  cut  up  into  hundreds  of  small  pieces,  which  is 
the  method  practised  by  the  Mexican  butchers,  and  dis- 
tributed to  the  men. 

In  Mexico  it  is  the  custom  for  the  man  who  gives  the 
"  round-up  "  to  supply  fresh  beef  to  the  visiting  cow-men ; 
and  on  this  occasion  it  seemed  that  the  pigs,  chickens,  and 


A   RODEO   AT    LOS   OJOS  &3 

dogs  were  also  embraced  in  the  bounty  of  the  patron,  for 
I  noticed  one  piece  which  hung  immediately  in  front  of 
my  quarters  had  two  chickens  roosting  on  the  top  of  it, 
and  a  pig  and  a  dog  tugging  vigorously  at  the  bottom. 

The  horse  herds  were  moved  in  from  the  llano  and  round- 
ed up  in  the  corral,  from  which  the  punchers  selected 
their  mounts  by  roping,  and  as  the  sun  was  westering  they 
disappeared,  in  obedience  to  orders,  to  all  points  of  the 
compass.  The  men  took  positions  back  in  the  hills  and 
far  out  on  the  plain ;  there,  building  a  little  fire,  they 
cook  their  beef,  and,  enveloped  in  their  serapes,  spend  the 
night.  At  early  dawn  they  converge  on  the  ranch,  driv- 
ing before  them  such  stock  as  they  may. 

In  the  morning  we  could  see  from  the  ranch-house  a 
great  semicircle  of  gray  on  the  yellow  plains.  It  was  the 
thousands  of  cattle  coming  to  the  rodeo.  In  an  hour 
more  we  could  plainly  see  the  cattle,  and  behind  them 
the  vaqueros  dashing  about,  waving  their  serapes.  Gradu- 
ally they  converged  on  the  rodeo  ground,  and,  enveloped 
in  a  great  cloud  of  dust  and  with  hollow  bellowings,  like 
the  low  pedals  of  a  great  organ,  they  begin  to  mill,  or  turn 
about  a  common  centre,  until  gradually  quieted  by  the 
enveloping  cloud  of  horsemen.  The  patron  and  the  cap- 
tains of  the  neighboring  ranches,  after  an  exchange  of 
long-winded  Spanish  formalities,  and  accompanied  by  our- 
selves, rode  slowly  from  the  ranch  to  the  herd,  and,  enter- 
ing it,  passed  through  and  through  and  around  in  solemn 
procession.  The  cattle  part  before  the  horsemen,  and  the 
dust  rises  so  as  to  obscure  to  unaccustomed  eyes  all  but 
the  silhouettes  of  the  moving  thousands.  This  is  an  im- 
portant function  in  a  cow  country,  since  it  enables  the 
owners  or  their  men  to  estimate  what  numbers  of  the 
stock  belong  to  them,  to  observe  the  brands,  and  to  in- 
quire as  to  the  condition  of  the  animals  and  the  numbers 


84  PONY   TRACKS 

of  calves  and  "  mavericks,"  and  to  settle  any  dispute  which 
may  arise  therefrom. 

All  controversy,  if  there  be  any,  having  been  adjust- 
ed, a  part  of  the  punchers  move  slowly  into  the  herd, 
while  the  rest  patrol  the  outside,  and  hold  it.  Then  a 
movement  soon  begins.  You  see  a  figure  dash  at  about 
full  speed  through  an  apparently  impenetrable  mass  of 
cattle ;  the  stock  becomes  uneasy  and  moves  about,  grad- 
ually beginning  the  milling  process,  but  the  men  select 
the  cattle  bearing  their  brand,  and  course  them  through 
the  herd ;  all  becomes  confusion,  and  the  cattle  simply 
seek  to  escape  from  the  ever-recurring  horsemen.  Here 
one  sees  the  matchless  horsemanship  of  the  punchers. 
Their  little  ponies,  trained  to  the  business,  respond  to  the 
slightest  pressure.  The  cattle  make  every  attempt  to  es- 
cape, dodging  in  and  out  and  crowding  among  their  kind  ; 
but  right  on  their  quarter,  gradually  forcing  them  to  the 
edge  of  the  herd,  keeps  the  puncher,  until  finally,  as  a 
last  effort,  the  cow  and  the  calf  rush  through  the  support- 
ing line,  when,  after  a  terrific  race,  she  is  turned  into  an- 
other herd,  and  is  called  "the  cut." 

One  who  finds  pleasure  in  action  can  here  see  the  most 
surprising  manifestations  of  it.  A  huge  bull,  wild  with 
fright,  breaks  from  the  herd,  with  lowered  head  and 
whitened  eye,  and  goes  charging  off  indifferent  to  what 
or  whom  he  may  encounter,  with  the  little  pony  patter- 
ing in  his  wake.  The  cattle  run  at  times  with  nearly  the 
intensity  of  action  of  a  deer,  and  whip  and  spur  are  ap- 
plied mercilessly  to  the  little  horse.  The  process  of 
"tailing"  is  indulged  in,  although  it  is  a  dangerous  prac- 
tice for  the  man,  and  reprehensible  from  its  brutality  to 
the  cattle.  A  man  will  pursue  a  bull  at  top  speed,  will 
reach  over  and  grasp  the  tail  of  the  animal,  bring  it  to 
his  saddle,  throw  his  right  leg  over  the  tail,  and  swing  his 


WAVING    SERAPE  TO    DRIVE   CATTLE 


A   RODEO    AT    LOS   OJOS  87 

horse  suddenly  to  the  left,  which  throws  the  bull  rolling 
over  and  over.  That  this  method  has  its  value  I  have 
seen  in  the  case  of  pursuing  "  mavericks,"  where  an  un- 
successful throw  was  made  with  the  rope,  and  the  animal 
was  about  to  enter  the  thick  timber;  it  would  be  impossi- 
ble to  coil  the  rope  again,  and  an  escape  would  follow  but 
for  the  wonderful  dexterity  of  these  men  in  this  accom- 
plishment. The  little  calves  become  separated  from  their 
mothers,  and  go  bleating  about ;  their  mothers  respond 
by  bellows,  until  pandemonium  seems  to  reign.  The  dust 
is  blinding,  and  the  puncher  becomes  grimy  and  soiled ; 
the  horses  lather;  and  in  the  excitement  the  desperate 
men  do  deeds  which  convince  you  of  their  faith  that  "  a 
man  can't  die  till  his  time  comes."  At  times  a  bull  is 
found  so  skilled  in  these  contests  that  he  cannot  be  dis- 
placed from  the  herd ;  it  is  then  necessary  to  rope  him 
and  drag  him  to  the  point  desired ;  and  I  noticed  punch- 
ers ride  behind  recalcitrant  bulls  and,  reaching  over,  spur 
them.  I  also  saw  two  men  throw  simultaneously  for  an 
immense  creature,  when,  to  my  great  astonishment,  he 
turned  tail  over  head  and  rolled  on  the  ground.  They 
had  both  sat  back  on  their  ropes  together. 

The  whole  scene  was  inspiring  to  a  degree,  and  well 
merited  Mr.  Yorick's  observation  that  "  it  is  the  sport  of 
kings ;  the  image  of  war,  with  twenty-five  per  cent,  of  its 
danger." 

Fresh  horses  are  saddled  from  time  to  time,  but  before 
high  noon  the  work  is  done,  and  the  various  "  cut-offs  "  are 
herded  in  different  directions.  By  this  time  the  dust  had 
risen  until  lost  in  the  sky  above,  and  as  the  various  bands 
of  cowboys  rode  slowly  back  to  the  ranch,  I  observed 
their  demoralized  condition.  The  economy  per  force  of 
the  Mexican  people  prompts  them  to  put  no  more  cotton 
into  a  shirt  than  is  absolutely  necessary,  with  the  conse- 


88  PONY   TRACKS 

quence  that,  in  these  cases,  their  shirts  had  pulled  out 
from  their  belts  and  their  serapes,  and  were  flapping  in 
the  wind ;  their  mustaches  and  their  hair  were  perfectly 
solid  with  dust,  and  one  could  not  tell  a  bay  horse  from  a 
black. 

Now  come  the  cigarettes  and  the  broiling  of  beef.  The 
bosses  were  invited  to  sit  at  our  table,  and  as  the  work  of 
cutting  and  branding  had  yet  to  be  done,  no  time  was 
taken  for  ablutions.  Opposite  me  sat  a  certain  individual 
who,  as  he  engulfed  his  food,  presented  a  grimy  waste  of 
visage  only  broken  by  the  rolling  of  his  eyes  and  the 
snapping  of  his  teeth. 

We  then  proceeded  to  the  corrals,  which  were  made  in 
stockaded  form  from  gnarled  and  many-shaped  posts  set 
on  an  end.  The  cows  and  calves  were  bunched  on  one 
side  in  fearful  expectancy.  A  fire  was  built  just  outside 
of  the  bars,  and  the  branding-irons  set  on.  Into  the  cor- 
rals went  the  punchers,  with  their  ropes  coiled  in  their 
hands.  Selecting  their  victims,  they  threw  their  ropes, 
and,  after  pulling  and  tugging,  a  bull  calf  would  come  out 
of  the  bunch,  whereat  two  men  would  set  upon  him  and 
"  rastle"  him  to  the  ground.  It  is  a  strange  mixture  of 
humor  and  pathos,  this  mutilation  of  calves — humorous 
when  the  calf  throws  the  man,  and  pathetic  when  the 
man  throws  the  calf.  Occasionally  an  old  cow  takes  an 
unusual  interest  in  her  offspring,  and  charges  boldly  into 
their  midst.  Those  men  who  cannot  escape  soon  enough 
throw  dust  in  her  eyes,  or  put  their  hats  over  her  horns. 
And  in  this  case  there  were  some  big  steers  which  had 
been  "  cut  out "  for  purposes  of  work  at  the  plough  and 
turned  in  with  the  young  stock ;  one  old  grizzled  veteran 
manifested  an  interest  in  the  proceedings,  and  walked 
boldly  from  the  bunch,  with  his  head  in  the  air  and  bel- 
lowing ;  a  wild  scurry  ensued,  and  hats  and  serapes  were 


TAILING   A    BULL 


A   RODEO   AT   LOS    OJOS  91 

thrown  to  confuse  him.  But  over  all  this  the  punchers 
only  laugh,  and  go  at  it  again.  In  corral  roping  they  try 
to  catch  the  calf  by  the  front  feet,  and  in  this  they  be- 
come so  expert  that  they  rarely  miss.  As  I  sat  on  the 
fence,  one  of  the  foremen,  in  play,  threw  and  caught  my 
legs  as  they  dangled. 

When  the  work  is  done  and  the  cattle  are  again  turned 
into  the  herd,  the  men  repair  to  the  casa  and  indulge  in 
games  and  pranks.  We  had  shooting-matches  and  hun- 
dred-yard dashes ;  but  I  think  no  records  were  broken, 
since  punchers  on  foot  are  odd  fish.  They  walk  as 
though  they  expected  every  moment  to  sit  down.  Their 
knees  work  outward,  and  they  have  a  decided  "  hitch  "  in 
their  gait;  but  once  let  them  get  a  foot  in  a  stirrup  and 
a  grasp  on  the  horn  of  the  saddle,  and  a  dynamite 
cartridge  alone  could  expel  them  from  their  seat. 
When  loping  over  the  plain  the  puncher  is  the  epit- 
ome of  equine  grace,  and  if  he  desires  to  look  behind 
him  he  simply  shifts  his  whole  body  to  one  side  and  lets 
the  horse  go  as  he  pleases.  In  the  pursuit  of  cattle  at  a 
rodeo  he  leans  forward  in  his  saddle,  and  with  his  arms 
elevated  to  his  shoulders  he  "  plugs "  in  his  spurs  and 
makes  his  pony  fairly  sail.  While  going  at  this  tremen- 
dous speed  he  turns  his  pony  almost  in  his  stride,  and  no 
matter  how  a  bull  may  twist  and  swerve  about,  he  is  at 
his  tail  as  true  as  a  magnet  to  the  pole.  The  Mexican 
punchers  all  use  the  "  ring  bit,"  and  it  is  a  fearful  con- 
trivance. Their  saddle-trees  are  very  short,  and  as  straight 
and  quite  as  shapeless  as  a  "  saw-buck  pack-saddle."  The 
horn  is  as  big  as  a  dinner  plate,  and  taken  altogether  it  is 
inferior  to  the  California  tree.  It  is  very  hard  on  horses' 
backs,  and  not  at  all  comfortable  for  a  rider  who  is  not 
accustomed  to  it. 

They   all   use   hemp    ropes  which    are   imported   from 


92  PONY   TRACKS 

some  of  the  southern  states  of  the  republic,  and  carry  a 
lariat  of  hair  which  they  make  themselves.  They  work 
for  from  eight  to  twelve  dollars  a  month  in  Mexican 
coin,  and  live  on  the  most  simple  diet  imaginable.  They 
are  mostly  peoned,  or  in  hopeless  debt  to  their  patrons, 
who  go  after  any  man  who  deserts  the  range  and  bring 
him  back  by  force.  A  puncher  buys  nothing  but  his 
gorgeous  buckskin  clothes,  and  his  big  silver -mounted 
straw  hat,  his  spurs,  his  riata,  and  his  cincJia  rings.  He 
makes  his  teguas  or  buckskin  boots,  his  heavy  leggings, 
his  saddle,  and  the  patron  furnishes  his  arms.  On  the 
round-up,  which  lasts  about  half  of  the  year,  he  is  fur- 
nished beef,  and  also  kills  game.  The  balance  of  the 
year  he  is  kept  in  an  outlying  camp  to  turn  stock  back 
on  the  range.  These  camps  are  often  the  most  simple 
things,  consisting  of  a  pack  containing  his  "grub,"  his 
saddle,  and  serape,  all  lying  under  a  tree,  which  does  duty 
as  a  house.  He  carries  a  flint  and  steel,  and  has  a  piece 
of  sheet-iron  for  a  stove,  and  a  piece  of  pottery  for  boiling 
things  in.  This  part  of  their  lives  is  passed  in  a  long 
siesta,  and  a  man  of  the  North  who  has  a  local  reputation 
as  a  lazy  man  should  see  a  Mexican  puncher  loaf,  in 
order  to  comprehend  that  he  could  never  achieve  dis- 
tinction in  the  land  where  poco  tiempo  means  forever. 
Such  is  the  life  of  the  vaqnero,  a  brave  fellow,  a  fatalist, 
with  less  wants  than  the  pony  he  rides,  a  rather  thought- 
less man,  who  lacks  many  virtues,  but  when  he  mounts 
his  horse  or  casts  his  riata  all  men  must  bow  and  call  him 
master. 

The  baile,  the  song,  the  man  with  the  guitar — and 
under  all  this  dolce  far  niente  are  their  little  hates  and 
bickerings,  as  thin  as  cigarette  smoke  and  as  enduring  as 
time.  They  reverence  their  parents,  they  honor  their 
patron,  and  love  their   compadre.     They    are  grave,  and 


JOHNNIE   BELL   OF   LOS   OJOS 


A    RODEO  AT    LOS   OJOS  95 

grave  even  when  gay ;  they  eat  little,  they  think  less, 
they  meet  death  calmly,  and  it's  a  terrible  scoundrel  who 
goes  to  hell  from  Mexico. 

The  Anglo-American  foremen  are  another  type  entirely. 
They  have  all  the  rude  virtues.  The  intelligence  which 
is  never  lacking  and  the  perfect  courage  which  never  fails 
are  found  in  such  men  as  Tom  Bailey  and  Johnnie  Bell — 
two  Texans  who  are  the  superiors  of  any  cow-men  I  have 
ever  seen.  I  have  seen  them  chase  the  "  mavericks  "  at 
top  speed  over  a  country  so  difficult  that  a  man  could 
hardly  pass  on  foot  out  of  a  walk.  On  one  occasion  Mr. 
Bailey,  in  hot  pursuit  of  a  bull,  leaped  a  tremendous  fallen 
log  at  top  speed,  and  in  the  next  instant  "  tailed "  and 
threw  the  bull  as  it  was  about  to  enter  the  timber.  Bell 
can  ride  a  pony  at  a  gallop  while  standing  up  on  his  sad- 
dle, and  while  Cossacks  do  this  trick  they  are  enabled  to 
accomplish  it  easily  from  the  superior  adaptability  of 
their  saddles  to  the  purpose.  In  my  association  with 
these  men  of  the  frontier  I  have  come  to  greatly  respect 
their  moral  fibre  and  their  character.  Modern  civiliza- 
tion, in  the  process  of  educating  men  beyond  their  capac- 
ity, often  succeeds  in  vulgarizing  them  ;  but  these  natural 
men  possess  minds  which,  though  lacking  all  embellish- 
ment, are  chaste  and  simple,  and  utterly  devoid  of  a  cer- 
tain flippancy  which  passes  for  smartness  in  situations 
where  life  is  not  so  real.  The  fact  that  a  man  bolts  his 
food  or  uses  his  table-knife  as  though  it  were  a  deadly 
weapon  counts  very  little  in  the  game  these  men  play  in 
their  lonely  range  life.  They  are  not  complicated,  these 
children  of  nature,  and  they  never  think  one  thing  and 
say  another.  Mr.  Bell  was  wont  to  squat  against  a  fire- 
place— a  la  Indian — and  dissect  the  peculiarities  of  the 
audience  in  a  most  ingenuous  way.  It  never  gave  of- 
fence either,  because  so  guileless.     Mr.  Bailey,  after  listen- 


96  PONY   TRACKS 

ing  carefully  to  a  theological  tilt,  observed  that  "  he  be- 
lieved he'd  be  religious  if  he  knowed  how." 

The  jokes  and  pleasantries  of  the  American  puncher 
are  so  close  to  nature  often,  and  so  generously  veneered 
with  heart-rending  profanity,  as  to  exclude  their  becom- 
ing classic.  The  cow-men  are  good  friends  and  virulent 
haters,  and,  if  justified  in  their  own  minds,  would  shoot  a 
man  instantly,  and  regret  the  necessity,  but  not  the  shoot- 
ing, afterwards. 

Among  the  dry,  saturnine  faces  of  the  cow  punchers 
of  the  Sierra  Madre  was  one  which  beamed  with  human 
instincts,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Welcome,  stranger !"  He 
was  the  first  impression  my  companion  and  myself  had  of 
Mexico,  and  as  broad  as  are  its  plains  and  as  high  its 
mountains,  yet  looms  up  William  on  a  higher  pinnacle  of 
remembrance. 

We  crawled  out  of  a  Pullman  in  the  early  morning  at 
Chihuahua,  and  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  little  black  man, 
with  telescopic  pantaloons,  a  big  sombrero  with  the  edges 
rolled  up,  and  a  grin  on  his  good-humored  face  like  a 
yawning  barranca. 

"  Is  you  frens  of  Mista  Jack's?" 

"We  are." 

"  Gimme  your  checks.  Come  dis  way,"  he  said  ;  and 
without  knowing  why  we  should  hand  ourselves  and  our 
property  over  to  this  uncouth  personage,  we  did  it,  and 
from  thence  on  over  the  deserts  and  in  the  mountains, 
while  shivering  in  the  snow  by  night  and  by  day,  there 
was  Jack's  man  to  bandage  our  wounds,  lend  us  tobacco 
when  no  one  else  had  any,  to  tuck  in  our  blankets,  to 
amuse  us,  to  comfort  us  in  distress,  to  advise  and  admon- 
ish, until  the  last  adios  were  waved  from  the  train  as  it 
again  bore  us  to  the  border-land. 

On  our  departure  from  Chihuahua  to  meet  Jack  out  in 


A    RODEO   AT    LOS    OJOS  99 

the  mountains  the  stage  was  overloaded,  but  a  proposition 
to  leave  William  behind  was  beaten  on  the  first  ballot ;  it 
was  well  vindicated,  for  without  William  the  expedition 
would  have  been  a  "  march  from  Moscow."  There  was 
only  one  man  in  the  party  with  a  sort  of  bass-relief  notion 
that  he  could  handle  the  Spanish  language,  and  the  relief 
was  a  very  slight  one — almost  imperceptible — the  polite- 
ness of  the  people  only  keeping  him  from  being  mobbed. 
But  William  could  speak  German,  English,  and  Spanish, 
separately,  or  all  at  once. 

William  was  so  black  that  he  would  make  a  dark  hole 
in  the  night,  and  the  top  of  his  head  was  not  over  four 
and  a  half  feet  above  the  soles  of  his  shoes.  His  legs 
were  all  out  of  drawing,  but  forty- five  winters  had  not 
passed  over  him  without  leaving  a  "mind  which,  in  its 
sphere  of  life,  was  agile,  resourceful,  and  eminently  capable 
of  grappling  with  any  complication  which  might  arise. 
He  had  personal  relations  of  various  kinds  with  every 
man,  woman,  and  child  whom  we  met  in  Mexico.  He 
had  been  thirty  years  a  cook  in  a  cow  camp,  and  could 
evolve  banquets  from  the  meat  on  a  bull's  tail,  and  was 
wont  to  say, "  I  don'  know  so  much  'bout  dese  yar  stoves, 
but  gie  me  a  camp-fire  an'  I  can  make  de  bes'  thing  yo' 
ever  threw  your  lip  ober." 

When  in  camp,  with  his  little  cast-off  English  tourist 
cap  on  one  side  of  his  head,  a  short  black  pipe  tipped 
at  the  other  angle  to  balance  the  effect,  and  two  or  three 
stripes  of  white  corn -meal  across  his  visage,  he  would 
move  round  the  camp-fire  like  a  cub  bear  around  a  huckle- 
berry bush,  and  in  a  low,  authoritative  voice  have  the 
Mexicans  all  in  action,  one  hurrying  after  water,  another 
after  wood,  some  making  tortillas,  or  cutting  up  venison, 
grinding  coffee  between  two  stones,  dusting  bedding,  or 
anything  else.     The  British  Field-Marshal  air  was  lost  in 


ioo  PONY   TRACKS 

a  second  when  he  addressed  "  Mister  Willie  "  or  "  Mister 
Jack,"  and  no  fawning  courtier  of  the  Grand  Monarch 
could  purr  so  low. 

On  our  coach  ride  to  Bavicora,  William  would  seem  to 
go  up  to  any  ranch-house  on  the  road,  when  the  sun  was 
getting  low,  and  after  ten  minutes'  conversation  with  the 
grave  Don  who  owned  it,  he  would  turn  to  us  with  a 
wink,  and  say :  "  Come  right  in,  gemmen.  Dis  ranch  is 
yours."  Sure  enough,  it  was.  Wrhether  he  played  us  for 
major-generals  or  governors  of  states  I  shall  never  know, 
but  certainly  we  were  treated  as  such. 

On  one  occasion  William  had  gotten  out  to  get  a  hat 
blown  off  by  the  wind,  and  when  he  came  up  to  view  the 
wreck  of  the  turn-over  of  the  great  Concord  coach,  and  saw 
the  mules  going  off  down  the  hill  with  the  front  wheels, 
the  ground  littered  with  boxes  and  debris,  and  the  men 
all  lying  about,  groaning  or  fainting  in  agony,  William 
scratched  his  wool,  and  with  just  a  suspicion  of  humor  on 
his  face  he  ventured,  "  If  I'd  been  hyar,  I  would  be  in  two 
places  'fore  now,  shuah,"  which  was  some  consolation  to 
William,  if  not  to  us. 

In  Chihuahua  we  found  William  was  in  need  of  a 
clean  shirt,  and  we  had  got  one  for  him  in  a  shop. 
He  had  selected  one  with  a  power  of  color  enough  to 
make  the  sun  stand  still,  and  with  great  glass  dia- 
monds in  it.  We  admonished  him  that  when  he  got 
to  the  ranch  the  punchers  would  take  it  away  from 
him. 

"  No,  sah  ;  I'll  take  it  off  'fore  I  get  thar." 

William  had  his  commercial  instincts  developed  in  a 
reasonable  degree,  for  he  was  always  trying  to  trade  a 
silver  watch,  of  the  Captain  Cuttle  kind,  with  the  Mexi- 
cans. When  asked  what  time  it  was,  William  would  look 
at  the  sun  and  then   deftly  cant  the  watch  around,  the 


sTMox  jtc 


MOUNTING   A   WILD   ONE 


A   RODEO   AT   LOS   OJOS  103 

hands  of  which  swung  like  compasses,  and  he  would  show 
you  the  time  within  fifteen  minutes  of  right,  which  little 
discrepancy  could  never  affect  the  value  of  a  watch  in  the 
land  of  maftana. 

That  he  possessed  tact  I  have  shown,  for  he  was  the 
only  man  at  Bavicora  whose  relations  with  the  patron 
and  the  smallest,  dirtiest  Indian  "  kid,"  were  easy  and 
natural.  Jack  said  of  his  popularity,  "  He  stands  'way  in 
with  the  Chinese  cook;  gets  the  warm  corner  behind  the 
stove."  He  also  had  courage,  for  didn't  he  serve  out  the 
ammunition  in  Texas  when  his  "  outfit "  was  in  a  life-and- 
death  tussle  with  the  Gomanches?  did  he  not  hold  a  starv- 
ing crowd  of  Mexican  teamsters  off  the  grub-wagon  until 
the  boys  came  back? 

There  was  only  one  feature  of  Western  life  with  which 
William  could  not  assimilate,  and  that  was  the  horse. 
He  had  trusted  a  bronco  too  far  on  some  remote  occa- 
sion, which  accounted  partially  for  the  kinks  in  his  legs  ; 
but  after  he  had  recovered  fully  his  health  he  had  pinned 
his  faith  to  burros,  and  forgotten  the  glories  of  the  true 
cavalier. 

"  No,  sah,  Mister  Jack,  I  don'  care  for  to  ride  dat 
horse.  He's  a  good  horse,  but  I  jes  hit  de  flat  for  a  few 
miles  'fore  I  rides  him,"  he  was  wont  to  say  when  the 
cowboys  gave  themselves  over  to  an  irresponsible  desire 
to  see  a  horse  kill  a  man.  He  would  then  go  about  his 
duties,  uttering  gulps  of  suppressed  laughter,  after  the 
negro  manner,  safe  in  the  knowledge  that  the  burro  he 
affected  could  "pack  his  freight." 

One  morning  I  was  taking  a  bath  out  of  our  wash- 
basin, and  William,  who  was  watching  me  and  the  coffee- 
pot at  the  same  time,  observed  that  "  if  one  of  dese  peo- 
ple down  hyar  was  to  do  dat  dere,  dere'd  be  a  funeral  'fo' 
twelve  o'clock." 


io4  PONY   TRACKS 

William  never  admitted  any  social  affinity  with  Mexi- 
cans, and  as  to  his  own  people  he  was  wont  to  say : 
"  Never  have  went  with  people  of  my  own  color.  Whyr 
you  go  to  Brazos  to-day,  and  dey  tell  you  dere  was  Bill,. 
he  go  home  come  night,  an'  de  balance  of  'em  be  looking 
troo  de  grates  in  de  morning."  So  William  lives  happily 
in  the  "  small  social  puddle,"  and  always  reckons  to  "treat 
any  friends  of  Mister  Jack's  right."  So  if  you  would 
know  William,  you  must  do  it  through  Jack. 

It  was  on  rare  occasions  that  William,  as  master  of 
ceremonies,  committed  any  indiscretion,  but  one  occurred 
in  the  town  of  Guerrero.  We  had  gotten  in  rather  late, 
and  William  was  sent  about  the  town  to  have  some  one 
serve  supper  for  us.  We  were  all  very  busy  when  Will- 
iam "  blew  in  "  with  a  great  sputtering,  and  said,  "  Is  yous 
ready  for  dinner,  gemmen  ?"  "  Yes,  William,"  we  an- 
swered, whereat  William  ran  off.  After  waiting  a  long 
time,  and  being  very  hungry,  we  concluded  to  go  and 
"  rustle  "  for  ourselves,  since  William  did  not  come  back 
and  had  not  told  us  where  he  had  gone.  After  we  had 
found  and  eaten  a  dinner,  William  turned  up,  gloomy  and 
dispirited.  We  inquired  as  to  his  mood.  "  I  do  declar'r 
gemmen,  I  done  forget  dat  you  didn't  know  where  I  had 
ordered  dat  dinner;  but  dere's  de  dinner  an'  nobody  to 
eat  it,  an'  I's  got  to  leave  dis  town  'fore  sunup,  pay 
for  it,  or  die."  Unless  some  one  had  advanced  the 
money,  William's  two  other  alternatives  would  have  been 
painful. 

The  romance  in  William's  life  even  could  not  be  made 
mournful,  but  it  was  the  "  mos'  trouble  "  he  ever  had,  and 
it  runs  like  this :  Some  years  since  William  had  saved  up 
four  hundred  dollars,  and  he  had  a  girl  back  in  Brazos  to 
whom  he  had  pinned  his  faith.  He  had  concluded  to  as- 
sume responsibilities,  and  to  create  a  business  in  a  little 


A    RODEO   AT    LOS   OJOS  107 

mud  town  down  the  big  road.  He  had  it  arranged  to 
start  a  travellers'  eating-house  ;  he  had  contracted  for  a 
stove  and  some  furniture  ;  and  at  about  that  time  his  dis- 
honest employer  had  left  Mexico  for  parts  unknown,  with 
all  his  money.  The  stove  and  furniture  were  yet  to  be 
paid  for,  so  William  entered  into  hopeless  bankruptcy, 
lost  his  girl,  and  then,  attaching  himself  to  Jack,  he  brave- 
ly set  to  again  in  life's  battle.  But  I  was  glad  to  know 
that  he  had  again  conquered,  for  before  I  left  I  overheard 
a  serious  conversation  between  William  and  the  patron. 
William  was  cleaning  a  frying-pan  by  the  camp-fire  light, 
and  the  patron  was  sitting  enveloped  in  his  serape  on  the 
other  side. 

"  Mist'  Jack,  I's  got  a  girl.     She's  a  Mexican." 

"  Why,  William,  how  about  that  girl  up  in  the  Brazos  ?" 
inquired  the  patron,  in  surprise. 

"  Don't  care  about  her  now.     Got  a  new  girl." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  can  have  her,  if  you  can  win  her," 
replied  the  patron. 

"  Can  I,  sah  ?  Well,  den,  I's  win  her  already,  sah — dar !" 
chuckled  William. 

"  Oh !  very  well,  then,  William,  I  will  give  you  a  wagon, 
with  two  yellow  ponies,  to  go  down  and  get  her ;  but  I 
don't  want  you  to  come  back  to  Bavicora  with  an  empty 
wagon." 

"  No,  sah  ;  I  won't,  sah,"  pleasedly  responded  the  lover. 

"  Does  that  suit  you,  then  ?"  asked  the  patron. 

"  Yes,  sah  ;  but,  sah,  wonder,  sah,  might  I  have  the  two 
old  whites?" 

"All  right!  You  can  have  the  two  old  white  ponies;" 
and,  after  a  pause,  "  I  will  give  you  that  old  adobe  up  in 
La  Pinta,  and  two  speckled  steers  ;  and  I  don't  want  you 
to  come  down  to  the  ranch  except  on  baile  nights,  and  I 
want  you  to  slide  in  then  just  as  quiet  as  any  other  out- 


108  PONY    TRACKS 

sider,"  said  the  patron,  who  was  testing  William's  loyalty 
to  the  girl. 

"All  right!     I'll  do  that." 

"  William,  do  you  know  that  no  true  Mexican  girl  will 
marry  a  man  who  don't  know  how  to  ride  a  charger?" 
continued  the  patron,  after  a  while. 

"  Yes ;  I's  been  thinking  of  dat ;  but  dar's  dat  Tim- 
borello,  he's  a  good  horse  what  a  man  can  'pend  on," 
replied  William,  as  he  scoured  at  the  pan  in  a  very  wear- 
ing way. 

"  He's  yours,  William  ;  and  now  all  you  have  got  to  do 
is  to  win  the  girl." 

After  that  William  was  as  gay  as  a  robin  in  the  spring ; 
and  as  I  write  this  I  suppose  William  is  riding  over  the 
pass  in  the  mountains,  sitting  on  a  board  across  his  wagon, 
with  his  Mexican  bride  by  his  side,  singing  out  between 
the  puffs  of  his  black  pipe,  "  Go  on,  dar,  you  muchacos ; 
specks  we  ever  get  to  Bavicora  dis  yar  gait?" 


IN   THE   SIERRA  MADRE   WITH    THE 
PUNCHERS 

On  a  chill,  black  morning  the  cabins  of  Los  Ojos  gave 
up  their  inmates  at  an  early  hour.  The  ponies,  mules, 
and  burros  were  herded  up,  and  stood  shivering  in  an 
angle,  while  about  them  walked  the  men,  carefully  coiling 
their  hair  lariats,  and  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  jerk 
them  over  the  heads  of  the  selected  ones.  The  patrons 
black  pet  walked  up  to  him,  but  the  mounts  of  my  com- 
panion and  self  sneaked  about  with  an  evident  desire  not 
to  participate  in  the  present  service.  Old  CokomoracJiie 
and  Jim  were  finally  led  forth,  protesting  after  the  man- 
ner of  their  kind.  I  carefully  adjusted  my  Whitman's  of- 
ficer-tree over  a  wealth  of  saddle  blanketing,  and  slung  my 
Winchester  45-70  and  my  field-glasses  to  it.  The  punch- 
ers, both  white  and  brown,  and  two  or  three  women,  re- 
garded my  new-fangled  saddle  with  amused  glances;  in- 
deed, Mr.  Bell's  Mexican  wife  laughed  at  it  outright,  and 
Tom  Bailey  called  it  "  a  damn  rim-fire."  Another  humorist 
thought  that  "  it  would  give  the  chickens  the  pip  if  they 
got  onto  it";  all  of  which  I  took  good-humoredly,  since 
this  was  not  the  first  time  "  your  Uncle  Samuel "  had  been 
away  from  home ;  and  after  some  days,  when  a  lot  of  men 
were  carefully  leading  sore  -  backed  horses  over  the  moun- 
tains, I  had  cause  to  remark  further  on  the  subject.  A 
Mexican  cow-saddle  is  a  double-barrelled  affair;  it  will  eat 
a  hole  into  a  horse's  spine  and  a  pair  of  leather  breeches 


no 


PONY   TRACKS 


MY   COMRADE 


three  fires,  but   they  had 

*  Cowboy  for  travelling  rapidly 


at  the  same  time.  If  one 
could  ask  "  Old  Jim  "  about 
that  saddle  of  mine,  I  think 
he  would  give  it  an  auto- 
graph recommend,  for  he 
finished  the  trip  with  the 
hide  of  his  back  all  there. 

Leaving  the  "burro 
men  "  to  haul  and  pull  at 
their  patient  beasts  as  they 
bound  on  their  loads,  our 
outfit  "pulled  out"  on 
what  promised  to  be  plen- 
ty of  travelling.  We  were 
to  do  the  rounds  of  the 
ranch,  explore  the  moun- 
tains, penetrate  to  the  old 
Apache  strongholds,  shoot 
game,  find  cliff-dwellers' 
villages,  and  I  expect  the 
dark  minds  of  the  punch- 
ers hoped  for  a  sight  at 
the  ever-burning  fire  which 
should  discover  the  lost 
mine  of  Tiopa.  We  were 
also  promised  a  fight  with 
the  "  Kid  "  if  we  "  cut  his 
trail";  and  if  he  "cut  ours," 
we  may  never  live  to  re- 
gret it.  Some  tame  Ind- 
ians, just  in  from  a  hunt 
in  the  Rio  Chico,  had  seen 
rolled  their  tails"*  for  Bavi- 


> 


ON   THE   MOUNTAINS 


IN   THE    SIERRA   MADRE  WITH   THE    PUNCHERS     1 13 

cora  so  promptly  that  they  had  not  ascertained  whether 
they  were  Apache  or  not.  The  same  men  we  were  in 
the  company  of  had  run  the  "  Kid's"  band  in  to  the  States 
only  two  months  before,  but  on  our  trip  that  very  elusive 
and  very  "bad  Injun"  was  not  encountered.  Much  as  I 
should  like  to  see  him,  I  have  no  regrets,  since  it  is  ex- 
tremely likely  that  he  would  have  seen  me  first. 

Our  little  band  was  composed  of  the  patron,  Don  Gil- 
berto  ;  my  travelling  companion  from  New  York  city,  who 
had  never  before  been  west  of  the  Elysian  Fields  of  New 
Jersey ;  Bailey  and  Bell,  ranch  foremen,  and  as  dauntless 
spirits  as  ever  the  Texas  border  nurtured ;  the  ranch  book- 
keeper, a  young  man  "  short  "  on  experiences  and  "  long  " 
on  hope ;  Epitacio,  an  Indian  hunter,  since  outlawed  ; 
William,  the  colored  cook  ;  four  buckskin  Mexican  punch- 
ers ;  an  old  man  who  was  useless  for  practical  purposes^ 
but  who  was  said  to  be  "  funny  "  in  Spanish  ;  and  two 
burro  men.  We  were  that  day  to  go  to  the  farthest 
outlying  ranch,  called  the  Casa  Camadra,  and  then  to  stop 
for  a  short  hunt  and  to  give  the  punchers  time  to  "gentle" 
some  steers  for  work -cattle.  The  puncher  method  of 
doing  this  is  beautifully  simple,  for  any  animal  undergoing 
this  is  gentle  or  dead  after  it.  After  scouring  the  plain 
for  antelope  until  late,  we  followed  up  a  creek  towards 
the  cabin  where  we  expected  to  find  the  punchers  and  the 
burro  men  with  their  loads  of  creature  comforts,  and  as 
we  rode  in  it  was  raining  a  cold  sleet.  The  little  log- 
cabin  was  low,  small,  and  wonderfully  picturesque.  It 
was  a  typical  "  shack,"  such  as  one  used  to  see  in  the 
Northwest  when  the  hunters  were  there.  Out  in  the 
rain  sat  two  punchers,  enveloped  in  their  serapes,  en- 
gaged in  watching  a  half-dozen  big  steers  eat  grass. 
Inside  of  the  cabin  was  William  by  a  good  fire  in  a  most 
original  fireplace,  glowing  with  heat  and  pride  over  his 


H4  PONY   TRACKS 

corn-cakes  and  "  marrow-gut."  Between  various  cigarettes, 
the  last  drink  of  tequela,  and  the  drying  of  our  clothes, 
we  passed  the  time  until  William  had  put  the  "grub" 
on  a  pack-saddle  blanket  and  said,  "Now,  gemmen, 
fly  in." 

"  Fly  in  "  is  vulgar,  but  it  is  also  literal,  for  we  did  that : 
we  did  not  dine — we  flew  in.  The  expression  and  the 
food  were  both  good.  Outside,  the  cold  rain  had  turned 
into  a  wet  snow,  and  we  all  crowded  into  the  little  place 
and  squatted  or  lay  about  on  the  floor.  With  fingers  and 
hunting- knives  we  carved  and  tore  at  the  mountain  of 
beef.  The  punchers  consume  enormous  quantities  of 
meat,  and  when  satiated  they  bring  forth  their  corn-husks 
and  tobacco-pouches,  and  roll  their  long,  thin  cigarettes,, 
which  burn  until  they  draw  their  serapes  about  their  heads 
and  sink  back  in  dreamless  sleep.  It  is  all  beautifully 
primitive,  and  as  I  rise  on  my  elbow  to  look  across  the 
blanketed  forms  packed  like  mackerel  in  a  cask,  to  hear 
their  heavy  breathing,  and  see  the  fire  glow,  and  hear  the 
wind  howl  outside,  I  think  how  little  it  takes  to  make  men 
happy.  Tom  Bailey  and  Johnnie  Bell,  the  ranch  foremen,, 
had  faces  which  would  have  been  in  character  under  a  steel 
head-piece  at  Cressy,  while  the  wildest  blood  of  Spain, 
Morocco,  and  the  American  Indian  ran  in  the  veins  of 
the  punchers;  and  all  these  men  were  untainted  by  the 
enfeebling  influences  of  luxury  and  modern  life.  A  chunk 
of  beef,  a  cigarette,  an  enveloping  serape,  with  the  Sierras 
for  a  bedroom,  were  the  utmost  of  their  needs. 

The  sunlight  streamed  down  the  big  chimney,  and  Will- 
iam's "  Good-mo'nin',  sah,"  brought  back  my  senses.  Be- 
yond his  silhouette,  as  he  crouched  before  the  fireplace,  I 
could  hear  the  sputtering  of  the  broiling  steak.  I  repaired 
to  the  brook  and  smashed  the  ice  for  a  rub-down.  It  was 
still  drizzling,  and  the  landscape  lay  under  a  heavy  fog. 


IN  THE   SIERRA  MADRE  WITH  THE  PUNCHERS      117 

Outside  the  cabin  lay  the  dead  body  of  a  skinned  wolf, 
and  about  a  small  fire  crouched  the  punchers. 

Breakfast  over,  the  men  rode  off  by  twos  into  the  fog, 
and  as  Tom  Bailey  and  I  jogged  along  together  we  rea- 
soned that  if  we  were  to  strike  the  point  of  the  mountains 
and  then  keep  well  in  the  timber  we  might  catch  a  bunch 
of  antelope  which  we  had  "  jumped  "  the  day  before 
on  the  plain  below.  So  all  day  long  we  rode  over  the 
wet  rocks,  under  the  drip  and  drizzle  of  the  mountain 
pines,  up  hill  and  down  dale,  and  never  "  cut  a  sign."  It 
was  our  luck  ;  for  on  riding  up  to  the  "shack  "  we  saw  the 
bodies  of  deer,  antelope,  a  big  gray  wolf,  and  the  skin  of 
a  mountain-lion.  We  were  requested  to  view  the  game, 
and  encouraged  to  comment  on  it ;  but  Tom  and  I  sought 
a  dark  corner  of  the  cabin  to  consume  our  coffee  and 
cigarettes  in  silence. 

At  the  Casa  Camadra  are  two  other  log-houses,  and  in 
them  live  some  squalid,  yellow-hided  humans  who  are  to 
farm  a  little  stretch  of  bottom-land  this  year.  They  re- 
quire work-steers  to  do  their  ploughing,  and  Mr.  Bell  has 
brought  up  half  a  dozen  vicious  old  "  stags,"  which  are 
both  truculent  and  swift  of  foot.  The  Mexicans  insist 
that  they  are  not  able  to  handle  them  ;  and  Mr.  Bell  or- 
ders his  punchers  into  action.  I  strolled  out  to  the  corrals 
to  see  the  bulls  "  gentled."  After  a  lot  of  riding  and  yell- 
ing they  were  herded  and  dragged  into  the  enclosure, 
where  they  huddled  while  seven  punchers  sat  on  their 
ponies  at  the  gate.  I  was  standing  at  one  corner  of  the 
corral,  near  the  men,  when  out  from  the  midst  of  the 
steers  walked  a  big  black  bull,  which  raised  its  head  and 
gazed  directly  at  me.  The  bull  had  never  before  in  his 
stupid  life  observed  a  man  on  foot,  and  I  comprehended 
immediately  what  he  would  do  next,  so  I  "  led  out "  for 
the  casa  at  a  rate   of  speed  which   the  boys  afterwards 


n8  PONY   TRACKS 

never  grew  weary  of  commending.  No  spangled  torero 
of  the  bull-ring  ever  put  more  heart  and  soul  into  his  run- 
ning than  did  I  in  my  great-coat  and  long  hunting-spurs. 
The  bull  made  a  "  fo'lorn  hope  "  for  the  gate,  and  the 
gallant  punchers  melted  away  before  the  charge. 

The  diversion  of  the  punchers  made  the  retreat  of  the 
infantry  possible,  and  from  an  intrenched  position  I  saw 
the  bulls  tear  over  the  hill,  with  the  punchers  "  rolling 
their  tails  "  behind.  After  an  hour  of  swearing  and  haul- 
ing and  bellowing,  the  six  cattle  were  lugged  back  to  the 
pen,  and  the  bars  put  up.  The  punchers  came  around  to 
congratulate  me  on  my  rapid  recovery  from  a  sprained 
ankle,  when  they  happened  to  observe  the  cattle  again 
scouring  off  for  the  open  country.  Then  there  was  a 
grunting  of  ponies  as  the  spurs  went  in,  some  hoarse 
oaths,  and  for  a  third  time  they  tore  away  after  the  "  gen- 
tle work-oxen."  The  steers  had  taken  the  bars  in  their 
stride.  Another  hour's  chase,  and  this  time  the  animals 
were  thrown  down,  trussed  up  like  turkeys  for  the  baking, 
and  tied  to  posts,  where  they  lay  to  kick  and  bellow  the 
night  through  in  impotent  rage.  The  punchers  coiled 
their  ropes,  lit  their  cigarettes,  and  rode  off  in  the  gather- 
ing gloom.  The  morning  following  the  steers  were  let  up, 
and  though  wet  and  chilled,  they  still  roared  defiance. 
For  agricultural  purposes  a  Mexican  "  stag  "  would  be  as 
valuable  as  a  rhinoceros  or  a  Bengal  tiger,  and  I  await 
with  interest  the  report  of  the  death-rate  at  the  Casa 
Camadra  during  spring  ploughing. 

In  the  handling  of  these  savage  animals  the  punchers 
are  brave  to  recklessness,  but  this  is  partly  because  it 
seems  so.  In  reality  they  have  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
bull  nature,  and  can  tell  when  and  where  he  is  going  to 
strike  as  quickly  as  a  boxer  who  knows  by  the  "  skim  on 
the  eye  "  of  his  opponent.     But  still  they  go  boldly  into 


IN    THE  SIERRA  MADRE  WITH   THE   PUNCHERS      121 

the  corral  with  the  maddened  brutes,  seeming  to  pay  no 
heed  to  the  imminent  possibilities  of  a  trip  to  the  moon. 
They  toss  their  ropes  and  catch  the  bull's  feet,  they  skil- 
fully avoid  his  rush,  and  in  a  spirit  of  bravado  they  touch 
the  horns,  pat  him  on  the  back,  or  twist  his  tail. 

After  hunting  for  another  day,  with  more  success,  we 
packed  up  and  "  pulled  out  "  up  the  Varras  Creek  towards 
the  mountains,  leaving  the  last  house  behind  us.  Beyond 
was  the  unknown  country.  For  many  miles  it  had  been 
ridden  by  some  of  the  punchers,  but  the  country  is  large, 
covered  with  vast  mountain  ranges  with  wastes  of  stony 
foot-hills  at  the  bases,  while  barrancas  yawn  at  your  feet, 
and  for  a  great  many  years  the  policy  of  the  Apaches  has 
been  not  to  encourage  immigration.  In  i860  a  heavy 
band  of  Mexican  prospectors  undertook  to  penetrate  this 
part  in  the  quest  of  Tiopa,  but  they  were  driven  out.  It 
is  now  possible  for  strong  outfits  to  travel  its  wilds  with 
only  a  small  chance  of  encountering  Apache  renegades, 
but  very  few  have  attempted  it  as  yet.  It  is  so  remote 
that  prospectors  for  silver  or  gold  could  hardly  work  a 
mine  if  they  found  one,  and  for  other  purposes  it  has  lit- 
tle value.  The  most  magnificent  pine  timber  covers  its 
slopes,  but  it  would  take  a  syndicate  to  deliver  one  log 
at  the  railroad.  As  we  wound  our  way  up  the  Varras 
Creek  we  passed  beetling  crags  and  huge  pillars  of  por- 
phyry rock  cut  into  fantastic  shapes  by  water  and  frost, 
resplendent  in  color,  and  admirably  adapted  for  the  pot- 
hunting  of  humans  as  affected  by  gentry  temporarily 
stopping  at  San  Carlos. 

In  a  dell  in  the  forest  we  espied  some  "mavericks,"  or 
unbranded  stock.  The  punchers  are  ever  alert  for  a  beef 
without  half  its  ears  gone  and  a  big  HF  burned  in  its 
flank,  and  immediately  they  perceive  one  they  tighten 
their  cincha,  slip  the  rope  from   the    pommel,  put   their 


122  PONY   TRACKS 

hats  on  the  back  of  their  heads,  and  ''light- out."  A  cow 
was  soon  caught,  after  desperate  riding  over  rocks  and 
fallen  timber,  thrown  down,  and  "  hog-tied,"  which  means 
all  four  feet  together.  A  little  fire  is  built,  and  one  side 
of  a  cincha  ring  is  heated  red-hot,  with  which  a  rawhide 
artist  paints  HF  in  the  sizzling  flesh,  while  the  cow 
kicks  and  bawls.  She  is  then  unbound,  and  when  she 
gets  back  on  her  feet  the  vaqueros  stand  about,  serape 
in  hand,  after  the  bull-fighter  method,  and  provoke  her 
to  charge.  She  charges,  while  they  avoid  her  by  agile 
springs  and  a  flaunting  of  their  rags.  They  laugh,  and 
cry  "  Bravo  toro !"  until  she,  having  overcome  her  indig- 
nation at  their  rudeness,  sets  off  down  the  canon  with  her 
tail  in  the  air. 

Thus  we  journeyed  day  by  day  over  the  hills  and  up 
the  canons,  camping  by  night  under  the  pines  in  moun- 
tain glades  or  deep  ravines,  where  the  sun  sets  at  four 
o'clock,  while  it  is  light  above.  The  moon  was  in  the 
full  and  the  nights  were  frosty,  and  many  times  we  awoke 
to  think  it  morning  when  only  our  heads  had  become  un- 
covered by  the  blankets  and  the  big  white  moon  shone 
fair  upon  us.  Getting  up  in  the  night  to  poke  the  fire 
and  thaw  the  stiffening  out  of  one's  legs  is  called  by  the 
boys  "playing  freeze-out,"  and  we  all  participate  in  the 
game.  A  cigarette  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with 
one's  back  to  the  fire,  while  the  moon  looks  down  on 
you,  your  comrades  breathing  about  you,  a  wolf  howling 
mournfully  from  a  neighboring  hill,  the  mountains  tow- 
ering on  every  side,  and  the  tall  pines  painting  inky  shad- 
ows across  the  ghostly  grass,  is  a  mild  sensation  and  rath- 
er pleasant.  Some  of  the  men  are  on  foot,  from  soring 
their  horses'  backs,  and  their  buckskin  boots  are  wearing 
•out,  so  they  sit  about  the  fire  and  stitch.  We  are  all  very 
dirty,  and  I  no  longer  take  comfort  in  watching  the  cook 


►IN   THE  SIERRA  MADRE  WITH    THE   PUNCHERS      125 

who  makes  the  bread,  for  fear  I  may  be  tempted  to  ask 
him  if  he  will  not  wash  his  hands,  whereat  the  boys  may 
indicate  that  I  am  a  "  dude,"  and  will  look  down  on  me. 
The  flour  is  nearly  gone,  and  shortly  it  will  not  matter 
whether  the  cook's  hands  are  rusty  or  not.  The  coffee 
and  sugar  promise  to  hold  out.  When  William  can  no 
longer  serve  "  bull  gravy  "  with  his  fried  meat  I  shall  have 
many  regrets,  but  they  are  swamped  by  the  probabilities 
of  a  tobacco  famine,  which  is  imminent.  We  get  deer 
every  day,  but  to  one  not  used  to  a  strictly  meat  diet  it 
begins  to  pall.  The  Indian  hunter  takes  the  stomach  of 
a  deer,  fills  it  with  meat,  and  deposits  it  under  the  coals. 
We  roast  it  in  slices  and  chunks,  but  I  like  it  better  when 
"jerked"  brown,  as  it  then  affords  somewhat  more  mys- 
tery to  a  taste  already  jaded  with  venison.  In  travelling 
with  pack-animals  it  is  the  custom  to  make  a  day's 
march  before  halting,  and  a  day's  march  ends  about  four 
o'clock,  or  when  water  is  found.  Ten  hours'  march  will 
loosen  one's  cartridge-belt  five  or  six  holes,  for  venison 
and  coffee  is  not  a  strong  food.  By  12  M.  we  acquire  a 
wolfish  yearning  for  the  "  flesh-pots,"  but  that  shortly  is 
relieved  by  the  contraction  of  the  stomach,  or  three  or 
four  quarts  of  mountain  water  will  afford  some  relief.  By 
nightfall  one  can  "  fly  into  "  a  venison  steak,  while  ciga- 
rettes, coffee,  and  a  desire  to  lie  down  restore  one's  equa- 
nimity. 

We  have  passed  some  small  ranges  and  worm  our  way 
down  bottomless  pits,  but  at  last  there  rises  ahead  the 
main  range  of  the  Sierra  Madre.  From  the  depths  of  a 
great  barranca  we  begin  the  climb.  Never  have  I  seen 
hills  as  sideling  as  these.  It  is  terrible  work  for  one  not 
used  to  mountain-climbing  and  the  short  allowance  of  air' 
one  finds  to  subsist  on.  The  feeling  of  exhaustion  is  al- 
most impossible  to  overcome.     The  horses  are  thin,  and 


126  PONY    TRACKS 

Old  Jim  is  developing  more  ribs  than  good  condition  calls 
for,  so  I  walk  to  ease  the  old  fellow.  There  are  snow 
fields  to  cross,  which  intensifies  the  action.  The  journey 
is  enlivened  at  times  by  shots  at  deer,  and  the  rifles  echo 
around  the  mountains,  but  being  long  shots  they  are 
misses.  We  passed  the  cordon  of  the  mountains,  and 
stopped  on  a  knife-like  ridge  where  the  melting  snows  un- 
der one's  foot  ran  east  and  west  to  the  two  great  oceans. 
The  climb  from  here  over  the  main  range  was  a  bellows- 
bursting  affair,  but  as  we  pulled  on  to  the  high  mesa  our 
drooping  nerves  were  stiffened  by  shots,  and  presently 
deer  came  bounding  down  the  ravine  to  our  left.  Jack 
made  a  bully  flying  shot,  and  the  stricken  deer  rolled 
many  yards,  until  caught  by  a  fallen  log.  My  compan- 
ion, who  was  in  advance,  had  fired  into  some  deer,  and 
had  shot  a  buck  which  was  lying  down,  and  he  was  much 
puffed  up  with  pride  over  this  achievement  in  still-hunt- 
ing. From  there  on  we  passed  through  the  most  won- 
derful natural  deer  park.  The  animals  did  not  fear  man, 
and  stood  to  be  fired  at,  though  the  open  timber  and  ab- 
sence of  underbrush  made  the  shots  long-range  ones. 
After  killing  all  we  could  carry,  we  sat  down  to  wait  for 
the  burro  train. 

That  night  we  camped  on  a  jutting  crag,  with  the  water 
running  in  the  barranca  two  hundred  feet  below  us.  For 
a  hundred  miles  the  mountain  and  plain  lay  at  our  feet 
— a  place  more  for  an  eagle's  eyrie  than  a  camp  for  a  cara- 
van. The  night  set  very  cold,  and  from  out  in  space  the 
moon  threw  its  mellow  light  down  upon  us.  Before  the 
camp-fire  our  Indian  hunter  told  the  story  of  the  killing 
of  Victoria's  band,  where  he  had  been  among  the  victors, 
and  as  he  threw  his  serape  down,  and  standing  forth  with 
the  firelight  playing  on  his  harsh  features,  he  swayed  his 
body  and  waved  his  hands,  while  with  hoarse  voice  and 


THE   CUFF-DWELLINGS 


IN  THE   SIERRA   MADRE  WITH   THE  PUNCHERS      129 

in  a  strange  language  he  gave  the  movement  of  the  fight. 
The  legend  of  the  lost  mine  of  Tiopa  was  narrated  by  a 
vaquero  in  the  quiet  manner  of  one  whose  memory  goes 
far  back,  and  to  whom  it  is  all  real — about  the  Jesuits, 
the  iron  door  over  the  mouth  of  the  mine,  its  richness, 
the  secrecy  enjoined  by  the  fathers  on  the  people  when 
they  fled  before  the  Apache  devils,  and  how  there  is  al- 
ways a  light  to  be  kept  burning  at  its  entrance  to  guide 
them  back.     It  was  a  grand  theatre  and  an  eerie  scene. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  mountain  we  found  the  trail 
most  difficult.  I  would  never  have  believed  that  a  horse 
could  traverse  it.  To  say  that  it  was  steep  is  common- 
place, and  yet  I  cannot  be  believed  if  I  say  that  it  was 
perpendicular;  but  a  man  could  toss  his  hat  a  mile  at 
any  moment  if  he  pleased.  Then,  underfoot,  it  was  all 
loose  lava  rock,  and  the  little  ponies  had  to  jump  and 
dance  over  the  bowlders.  When  we  had  finally  arrived  on 
a  grassy  mesa  I  concluded  that  if  ever  again  I  did  the  like 
of  that,  it  would  most  certainly  be  the  result'of  a  tremen- 
dous error  in  my  calculations.  The  pack-train  was  here 
detached  and  sent  to  water,  but  we  followed  Jack  to  see 
his  "  discovery."  After  miles  of  travel  through  the  dry, 
yellow  grass  we  came  out  on  a  high  bluff  with  a  barranca 
at  its  foot,  the  bottom  of  which  we  could  not  see.  On 
the  overhanging  wall  opposite  were  Jack's  cliff-dwellings, 
perched  like  dove-cots  against  the  precipice.  It  was  only 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  them,  but  it  took  two  days  to  get 
there,  so  we  did  not  go.  There  are  also  holes  in  the  cliffs, 
and  underground  passages.  The  paths  up  to  them  are 
washed  away,  but  Jack  and  some  of  his  men  have  invad- 
ed the  silent  village.  They  climbed  up  with  lariats,  and 
he  was  let  down  over  the  cliff,  but  they  found  nothing 
left  but  dust  and  cobwebs. 

We  could  not  get  down  to  water,  and   as  our  horses 
q 


130  PONY   TRACKS 

were  thirsty  and  foot-sore,  we  "  mogged  along."  On  our 
ride  we  "  cut  the  trail "  of  a  big  band  of  mustangs,  or  wild 
horses,  but  did  not  see  them,  and  by  late  afternoon  we 
found  the  camp,  and  William  busy  above  his  fire.  After 
hunting  down  the  valley  for  a  few  days  for  "  burro  deer  " 
and  wild  turkey,  we  found  that  the  tobacco  was  promptly 
giving  out,  according  to  calculations,  and,  being  all  invet- 
erate smokers,  we  "  made  trail  fast  "  for  the  Neuearachie 
ranch.  Our  ponies  were  jaded  and  sore  ;  but  having 
"  roped  "  a  stray  pony  two  days  before,  which  was  now 
fresh,  the  lightest  vaquero  was  put  on  his  back,  and  sent 
hot-foot  in  the  night  to  the  ranch  for  tobacco.  He  made 
the  long  ride  and  returned  at  noon  the  next  day  on  a 
fresh  mount,  having  been  thirty-six  hours  in  the  saddle. 
This  fellow  was  a  rather  remarkable  man,  as  it  was  he 
who,  on  the  beginning  of  the  trip,  had  brought  some  im- 
portant mail  to  us  one  hundred  and  seventy  miles,  and 
after  riding  down  two  ponies  he  followed  our  trail  on  foot 
through  the  mountains,  and  overtook  us  as  we  sat  resting 
on  a  log  in  the  woods. 

How  we  at  last  pulled  into  the  ranch  at  Neuearachie, 
with  its  log  buildings  and  irrigated  fields,  and  how  we 
"swooped  down"  on  Mr.  John  Bailey,  and  ate  up  all  his 
eggs  and  bread  and  butter  at  the  first  onset,  I  will  not 
weary  you  with,  but  I  believe  that  a  man  should  for  one 
month  of  the  year  live  on  the  roots  of  the  grass,  in  order 
to  understand  for  the  eleven  following  that  so-called  ne- 
cessities are  luxuries  in  reality.  Not  that  I  would  indis- 
criminately recommend  such  a  dietary  abasement  as  ours, 
yet  will  I  insist  that  it  has  killed  less  men  than  gluttony, 
and  should  you  ever  make  the  Sierra  trails  with  the 
punchers,  you  will  get  rather  less  than  more. 


BLACK   WATER   AND   SHALLOWS 

The  morning  broke  gray  and  lowering,  and  the  clouds 
rolled  in  heavy  masses  across  the  sky.  I  was  sitting  out 
on  a  log  washing  a  shirt,  and  not  distinguishing  myself 
as  a  laundryman  either,  for  one  shirt  will  become  exces- 
sively dirty  in  a  week,  and  no  canoeist  can  have  more 
than  that,  as  will  be  seen  when  you  consider  that  he  has 
to  carry  everything  which  he  owns  on  his  back.  My 
guide  had  packed  up  our  little  "  kit  "  and  deposited  it 
skilfully  in  the  Necoochee  —  a  sixteen -foot  canoe  of  the 
Rice  Lake  pattern. 

We  were  about  to  start  on  a  cruise  down  a  river  which 
the  lumbermen  said  could  not  be  "  run,"  as  it  was  shallow 
and  rocky.  We  could  find  no  one  who  had  been  down 
it,  and  so,  not  knowing  anything  about  it,  we  regarded 
it  as  a  pleasant  prospect.  "  Harrison,"  being  a  profes- 
sional guide  and  hunter,  had  mostly  come  in  contact  with 
people  —  or  "  sports,"  as  he  called  them — who  had  no 
sooner  entered  the  woods  than  they  were  overcome  with 
a  desire  to  slay.  No  fatigue  or  exertion  was  too  great 
when  the  grand  purpose  was  to  kill  the  deer  and  despoil 
the  trout  streams,  but  to  go  wandering  aimlessly  down  a 
stream  which  by  general  consent  was  impracticable  for 
boats,  and  then  out  into  the  clearings  where  the  moun- 
tain-spring was  left  behind,  and  where  logs  and  mill-dams 
and  agriculturists  took  the  place  of  the  deer  and  the  trout, 
was  a  scheme  which  never  quite  got  straightened  out  in 


132  PONY   TRACKS 

his  mind.  With  many  misgivings,  and  a  very  clear  im- 
pression that  I  was  mentally  deranged,  "  Has  "  allowed 
that  "  we're  all  aboard." 

We  pushed  out  into  the  big  lake  and  paddled.  As  we 
skirted  the  shores  the  wind  howled  through  the  giant 
hemlocks,  and  the  ripples  ran  away  into  white -caps  on 
the  far  shore.  As  I  wielded  my  double-blade  paddle  and 
instinctively  enjoyed  the  wildness  of  the  day,  I  also  in- 
dulged in  a  conscious  calculation  of  how  long  it  would 
take  my  shirt  to  dry  on  my  back.  It  is  such  a  pity  to 
mix  a  damp  shirt  up  with  the  wild  storm,  as  it  hurries 
over  the  dark  woods  and  the  black  water,  that  I  felt  mis- 
givings ;  but,  to  be  perfectly  accurate,  they  divided  my 
attention,  and,  after  all,  man  is  only  noble  by  fits  and 
starts. 

We  soon  reached  the  head  of  the  river,  and  a  water- 
storage  dam  and  a  mile  of  impassable  rapids  made  a 
"  carry  "  or  "  portage  "  necessary.  Slinging  our  packs  and 
taking  the  seventy -pound  canoe  on  our  shoulders,  we 
started  down  the  trail.  The  torture  of  this  sort  of  thing 
is  as  exquisitely  perfect  in  its  way  as  any  ever  devised. 
A  trunk-porter  in  a  summer  hotel  simply  does  for  a  few 
seconds  what  we  do  by  the  hour,  and  as  for  reconciling 
this  to  an  idea  of  physical  enjoyment,  it  cannot  be  done. 
It's  a  subtle  mental  process  altogether  indefinable ;  but 
your  enthusiast  is  a  person  who  would  lose  all  if  he  rea- 
soned any,  and  to  suffer  like  an  anchorite  is  always  a  part 
of  a  sportsman's  programme.  The  person  who  tilts  back 
in  a  chair  on  the  veranda  of  a  summer  hotel,  while  he 
smokes  cigars  and  gazes  vacantly  into  space,  is  your  only 
true  philosopher  ;  but  he  is  not  a  sportsman.  The  woods 
and  the  fields  and  the  broad  roll  of  the  ocean  do  not 
beckon  to  him  to  come  out  among  them.  He  detests  all 
their  sensations,  and   believes    nothing   holy  except  the 


THE   PORTAGE. 


BLACK    WATER    AND    SHALLOWS  135 

dinner-hour,  and  with  his  bad  appetite  that  too  is  flat, 
stale,  and  unprofitable.  A  real  sportsman,  of  the  nature- 
loving  type,  must  go  tramping  or  paddling  or  riding  about 
over  the  waste  places  of  the  earth,  with  his  dinner  in  his 
pocket.  He  is  alive  to  the  terrible  strain  of  the  "  carry," 
and  to  the  quiet  pipe  when  the  day  is  done.  The  camp- 
fire  contemplation,  the  beautiful  quiet  of  the  misty  morn- 
ing on  the  still  water,  enrapture  him,  and  his  eye  dilates, 
his  nerves  tingle,  and  he  is  in  a  conflagration  of  ecstasy. 
When  he  is  going — going — faster — faster  into  the  boil  of 
the  waters,  he  hears  the  roar  and  boom  ahead,  and  the 
black  rocks  crop  up  in  thickening  masses  to  dispute  his 
way.  He  is  fighting  a  game  battle  with  the  elements, 
and  they  are  remorseless.  He  may  break  his  leg  or  lose 
his  life  in  the  tip-over  which  is  imminent,  but  the  fool  is 
happy — let  him  die. 

But  we  were  left  on  the  "  carry,"  and  it  is  with  a  little 
thrill  of  joy  and  the  largest  sigh  of  relief  possible  when 
we  again  settle  the  boat  in  the  water.  Now  you  should 
understand  why  it  is  better  to  have  one  shirt  and  wash 
it  often.  My  "  canoe  kit "  is  the  best  arranged  and  the 
most  perfect  in  the  world,  as  no  other  canoeist  will  possi- 
bly admit,  but  which  is  nevertheless  a  fact.  One  blanket, 
a  light  shelter-tent,  a  cooking  outfit,  which  folds  up  in  a 
sort  of  Japanese  way,  a  light  axe,  two  canvas  packs,  and 
tea,  bacon,  and  flour.  This  does  not  make  long  reading, 
but  it  makes  a  load  for  a  man  when  it's  all  packed  up, 
and  a  canoeist's  baggage  must  be  cut  to  the  strength  of 
his  back.  It  is  a  great  piece  of  confidence  in  which  I  will 
indulge  you  when  I  caution  you  not  to  pick  out  invalids 
for  canoe  companions.  If  a  burro  would  take  kindly  to 
backwoods  navigation,  I  should  enjoy  the  society  of  one, 
though  it  would  not  be  in  the  nature  of  a  burro  to  swing 
an  axe,  as  indeed  there  are  many  fine  gentlemen  who  can- 


136  PONY   TRACKS 

not  do  a  good  job  at  that ;  and  if  one  at  least  of  the  party 
cannot,  the  camp-fires  will  go  out  early  at  nights,  and  it 
is  more  than  probable  that  the  companions  will  have  less 
than  twenty  toes  between  them  at  the  end  of  the  cruise. 

All  these  arrangements  being  perfected,  you  are  ready 
to  go  ahead,  and  in  the  wilderness  you  have  only  one 
anxiety,  and  that  is  about  the  "  grub."  If  the  canoe  turn 
over,  the  tea,  the  sugar,  and  the  flour  will  mix  up  with  the 
.surrounding  elements,  and  only  the  bacon  will  remain  to 
nourish  you  until  you  strike  the  clearings,  and  there  are 
few  men  this  side  700  north  latitude  who  will  gormandize 
on  that  alone. 

The  long  still  water  is  the  mental  side  of  canoeing,  as 
the  rapid  is  the  life  and  movement.  The  dark  woods 
tower  on  either  side,  and  the  clear  banks,  full  to  their  fat 
sides,  fringed  with  trailing  vines  and  drooping  ferns,  have 
not  the  impoverished  look  of  civilized  rivers.  The  dark 
water  wells  along,  and  the  branches  droop  to  kiss  it.  In 
front  the  gray  sky  is  answered  back  by  the  water  reflec- 
tion, and  the  trees  lie  out  as  though  hung  in  the  air,  form- 
ing a  gateway,  always  receding.  Here  and  there  an  old 
monarch  of  the  forest  has  succumbed  to  the  last  blow  and 
fallen  across  the  stream.  It  reaches  out  ever  so  far  with 
its  giant  stems,  and  the  first  branch  had  started  sixty 
feet  from  the  ground.  You  may  have  to  chop  a  way 
through,  or  you  may  force  your  canoe  through  the  limbs 
and  gather  a  crowd  of  little  broken  branches  to  escort 
you  along  the  stream.  The  original  forest  tree  has  a 
character  all  its  own,  and  I  never  see  one  but  I  think  of 
the  artist  who  drew  second-growth  timber  and  called  it 
"the  forest  primeval."  The  quietness  of  the  woods,  with 
all  their  solemnity,  permitting  no  bright  or  overdressed 
plant  to  obtrude  itself,  is  rudely  shocked  by  the  garish 
painted    thing   as   the   yellow  polished    Necoochee  glides 


BLACK   WATER   AND   SHALLOWS  139 

among  them.  The  water-rat  dives  with  a  tremendous 
splash  as  he  sees  the  big  monster  glide  by  his  sedge 
home.  The  kingfisher  springs  away  from  his  perch  on 
the  dead  top  with  loud  chatterings  when  we  glide  into  his 
notice.  The  crane  takes  off  from  his  grassy  "  set  back  " 
in  a  deliberate  manner,  as  though  embarking  on  a  tour  to 
Japan,  a  thing  not  to  be  hurriedly  done.  The  mink  eyes 
you  from  his  sunken  log,  and,  grinning  in  his  most  savage 
little  manner,  leaps  away.  These  have  all  been  disturbed 
in  their  wild  homes  as  they  were  about  to  lunch  off  the 
handiest  trout,  and  no  doubt  they  hate  us  in  their  liveliest 
manner ;  but  the  poor  trout  under  the  boat  compensate 
us  with  their  thanks.  The  mud-turtle  is  making  his  way 
up-stream,  as  we  can  tell  by  the  row  of  bubbles  which 
arise  in  his  wake ;  and  the  u  skaters,"  as  I  call  the  little 
insects  which  go  skipping  about  like  a  lawyer's  point  in 
an  argument,  part  as  we  go  by.  The  mosquitoes,  those 
desperate  little  villains  who  dispute  your  happiness  in 
the  woods,  are  there,  but  they  smell  the  tar  and  oil  of  our 
war-paint,  and  can  only  hum  in  their  anger.  A  stick 
cracks  in  the  brush,  and  with  all  the  dash  and  confidence 
of  a  city  girl  as  she  steps  from  her  front  door,  a  little 
spotted  fawn  walks  out  on  a  sedge  bank  from  among  the 
alders.  He  does  not  notice  us,  but  in  his  stupid  little 
way  looks  out  the  freshest  water-grass,  and  the  hunter  in 
the  stern  of  the  boat  cuts  his  paddle  through  the  water, 
and  the  canoe  glides  silently  up  until  right  under  his 
nose.  We  are  still  and  silent.  The  little  thing  raises  its 
head  and  looks  us  full  in  the  eye,  and  then  continues  to 
feed  as  before.  I  talk  to  him  quietly,  and  say,  "  Little 
man,  do  not  come  near  the  ponds  or  the  rivers,  for  you 
will  not  live  to  have  five  prongs  on  your  antlers  if  any 
one  but  such  good  people  as  we  see  you."  He  looks  up, 
and  seems  to   say,  "  You   are  noisy,  but  I  do  not  care." 


140 


PONY   TRACKS 


"  Now  run ;  and  if  you  ever  see  anything  in  the  forest 
which  resembles  us,  run  for  your  life  ";  and  with  a  bound 
the  little  innocent  has  regained  the  dark  aisles  of  the 
woods.     You    loll  back    on  your  pack,  your  pipe   going 


THE   FAWN 


lazily ;  your  hat  is  off ;  you  moralize,  and  think  thoughts 
which  have  dignity.  You  drink  in  the  spell  of  the  forest, 
and  dream  of  the  birch  barks  and  the  red  warriors  who 
did  the  same  thing  a  couple  of  centuries  since.  But  as 
thoughts  vary  so  much  in   individuals,  and  have  but   an 


CREAKING   A   JAM. 


BLACK  WATER   AND   SHALLOWS  143 

indirect  bearing  on  canoeing,  I  will  proceed  without  them. 
The  low  swamp,  with  its  soft  timber,  gives  place  to  hills 
and  beech  ridges,  and  the  old  lord  of  the  forest  for  these 
last  hundred  years  towers  up  majestically.  The  smaller 
trees  fight  for  the  sunlight,  and  thus  the  ceaseless  war  of 
nature  goes  on  quietly,  silently,  and  alone.  The  miserable 
"  witch-hoppel "  leads  its  lusty  plebeian  life,  satisfied  to 
spring  its  half-dozen  leaves,  and  not  dreaming  to  some 
day  become  an  oak.  The  gentle  sigh  of  the  forest,  the 
hum  of  insects,  and  the  chatter  and  peal  of  the  birds  have 
gone  into  harmony  with  a  long,  deep,  swelling  sound,  be- 
coming louder  and  louder,  until  finally  it  drowns  all  else. 

The  canoe  now  glides  more  rapidly.  The  pipe  is  laid 
one  side.  The  paddle  is  grasped  firmly,  and  with  a  firm 
eye  I  regard  the  "  grub  "  pack  which  sits  up  in  the  bow, 
and  resolve  to  die  if  necessary  in  order  that  it  may  not 
sink  if  we  turn  over.  The  river  turns,  and  the  ominous 
growl  of  the  rapids  is  at  hand. 

"  Hold  her — hold  her  now — to  the  right  of  the  big 
rock ;  then  swing  to  the  far  shore  :  if  we  go  to  the  right, 
we  are  gone." 

"  All  right ;  let  her  stern  come  round,"  and  we  drop 
away. 

No  talking  now,  but  with  every  nerve  and  muscle  tense, 
and  your  eye  on  the  boil  of  the  water,  you  rush  along. 
You  back  water  and  paddle,  the  stern  swings,  she  hangs 
for  an  instant,  she  falls  in  the  current,  and  with  a  mad 
rush  you  take  it  like  a  hunting-man  a  six-bar  gate.  Now 
paddle,  paddle,  paddle.  It  looks  bad — we  cannot  make 
it — yes — all  right,  and  we  are  on  the  far  shore,  with  the 
shallows  on  the  other  side.  This  little  episode  was  suc- 
cessful, but,  as  you  well  know,  it  cannot  last.  The  next 
rift,  and  with  a  bump  she  is  hung  upon  a  sunken  rock, 
and — jump!  jump! — we  both  flounder  overboard   in  any 


144  PONY    TRACKS 

way  possible,  so  it  is  well  and  quickly  done.  One  man 
loses  his  hold,  the  other  swings  the  boat  off,  and,  kicking 
and  splashing  for  a  foothold,  the  demoralized  outfit  shoots 
along.  At  last  one  is  found,  and  then  at  a  favorable  rock 
we  embark  again. 

You  are  now  wet,  but  the  tea  and  sugar  are  safe,  so  it's 
a  small  matter.  A  jam  of  logs  and  tops  is  "  hung  up  "  on 
a  particularly  nasty  place,  and  you  have  a  time  getting 
the  boat  around  it.  You  walk  on  rotten  tops  while  the 
knots  stick  up  beneath  you  like  sabres.  "  Has  "  floats 
calmly  out  to  sea,  as  it  were,  on  a  detached  log  which  he 
is  cutting,  and  with  a  hopeless  look  of  despair  he  totters, 

while  I  yell,  "  Save  the  axe, you — save  the  axe  !"  and 

over  he  goes,  only  to  get  wet  and  very  disgusted,  both  of 
which  will  wear  off  in  time.  For  a  mile  the  water  is  so 
shallow  that  the  boat  will  not  run  loaded,  and  we  lead 
her  along  as  we  wade,  now  falling  in  over  our  heads,  slid- 
ing on  slippery  stones,  hurting  our  feet,  wondering  why 
we  had  come  at  all.  The  boat  gets  loose,  and  my  heart 
stands  still  as  the  whole  boat-load  of  blankets  and  grub 
with  our  pipes  and  tobacco  started  off  for  the  settlements 
— or  "drifting  to  thunder,"  as  Bret  Harte  said  of  Chi- 
quita.  There  was  rather  a  lively  and  enthusiastic  pursuit 
instituted  then,  the  details  of  which  are  forgotten,  as  my 
mind  was  focussed  on  the  grub -pack,  but  we  got  her. 
About  this  time  the  soles  let  go  on  my  tennis  shoes,  and 
my  only  pair  of  trousers  gave  way.  These  things,  how- 
ever, become  such  mere  details  as  to  be  scarcely  noticed 
when  you  have  travelled  since  sunrise  up  to  your  waist  in 
water,  and  are  tired,  footsore,  and  hungry.  It  is  time  to 
go  ashore  and  camp. 

You  scrape  away  a  rod  square  of  dirt,  chunks,  witch- 
hoppel,  and  dead  leaves,  and  make  a  fire.  You  dry  your 
clothes  while  you    wear  the  blanket  and  the  guide   the 


BLACK  WATER   AND    SHALLOWS  147 

shelter- tent,  and  to  a  casual  observer  it  would  look  as 
though  the  savage  had  come  again  ;  but  he  would  detect 
a  difference,  because  a  white  man  in  a  blanket  is  about  as 
inspiring  a  sight  as  an  Indian  with  a  plug-hat. 

Finally  the  coffee  boils,  the  tent  is  up,  and  the  bough 
bed  laid  down.  You  lean  against  the  dead  log  and  swap 
lies  with  the  guide  ;  and  the  greatest  hunters  I  have  ever 
known  have  all  been  magnificent  liars.  The  two  go  to- 
gether. I  should  suspect  a  man  who  was  deficient.  Since 
no  one  ever  believes  hunters'  yarns,  it  has  come  to  be  a 
pleasurable  pastime,  in  which  a  man  who  has  not  hunted 
considerably  can't  lie  properly  without  offending  the  in- 
telligence of  that  part  of  his  audience  who  have. 

The  morning  comes  too  soon,  and  after  you  are  packed 
up  and  the  boat  loaded,  if  you  are  in  a  bad  part  of  the 
river  you  do  this:  you  put  away  your  pipe,  and  with  a 
grimace  and  a  shudder  you  step  out  into  the  river  up  to 
your  neck  and  get  wet.  The  morning  is  cold,  and  I,  for 
one,  would  not  allow  a  man  who  was  perfectly  dry  to  get 
into  my  boat,  for  fear  he  might  have  some  trepidation 
about  getting  out  promptly  if  the  boat  was  "  hung  up  " 
on  a  rock ;  and  in  the  woods  all  nature  is  subservient  to 
the  "  grub." 

Hour  after  hour  we  waded  along.  A  few  rods  of  still 
water  and  "  Has  "  would  cut  off  large  chews  of  tobacco, 
and  become  wonderfully  cynical  as  to  the  caprices  of  the 
river.  The  still  water  ends  around  the  next  point.  You 
charge  the  thing  nobly,  but  end  up  in  the  water  up  to 
your  neck  with  the  "  grub  "  safe,  and  a  mile  or  so  more  of 
wading  in  prospect. 

Then  the  river  narrows,  and  goes  tumbling  off  down  a 
dark  canon  cut  through  the  rocks.  We  go  ashore  and 
11  scout  the  place,"  and  then  begin  to  let  the  boat  down  on 
a  line.     We  hug  the  black  sides  like  ants,  while  the  water 


148  PONY   TRACKS 

goes  to  soapsuds  at  our  feet.  The  boat  bobs  and  rocks, 
and  is  nearly  upset  in  a  place  where  we  cannot  follow  it 
through.  We  must  take  it  up  a  ledge  about  thirty  feet 
high,  and  after  puffing  and  blowing  and  feats  of  maniacal 
strength,  we  at  last  have  it  again  in  the  water.  After 
some  days  of  this  thing  we  found  from  a  statistician  we 
had  dropped  1100  feet  in  about  fifty-one  miles,  and  with 
the  well-known  propensity  of  water  to  flow  downhill,  it 
can  be  seen  that  difficulties  were  encountered.  You  can- 
not carry  a  boat  in  the  forest,  and  you  will  discover 
enough  reasons  why  in  a  five-minute  trail  to  make  their 
enumeration  tiresome.  The  zest  of  the  whole  thing  lies 
in  not  knowing  the  difficulties  beforehand,  and  then,  if 
properly  equipped,  a  man  who  sits  at  a  desk  the  year 
through  can  find  no  happier  days  than  he  will  in  his  canoe 
when  the  still  waters  run  through  the  dark  forests  and 
the  rapid  boils  below. 


COACHING    IN    CHIHUAHUA 

That  coaching  is  a  grand  sport  I  cannot  deny,  for  I 
know  almost  nothing  of  it  beyond  an  impression  that 
there  is  a  tremendous  amount  of  mystery  connected  with 
its  rites.  As  a  sport  I  have  never  participated  in  it,  but 
while  travelling  the  waste  places  of  the  earth  I  have  used 
it  as  a  means  on  occasion.  I  never  will  again.  There  is 
no  place  to  which  I  desire  to  go  badly  enough  to  go  in  a 
coach,  and  such  points  of  interest  as  are  inaccessible  ex- 
cept by  coach  are  off  my  trail.  I  am  not  in  the  least 
superstitious,  and  am  prone  to  scout  such  tendencies;  but 
I'm  a  Jonah  in  a  stage-coach,  and  that  is  not  a  supersti- 
tion, but  a  fact  amply  proven  by  many  trials.  I  remem- 
ber as  a  boy  in  Montana  having  been  so  hopelessly 
mixed  up  with  a  sage -bush  on  a  dark  night  when  the 
stage  overturned  that  it  left  an  impression  on  me.  Later 
in  life  I  was  travelling  in  Arizona,  and  we  were  bowling 
along  about  ten  miles  an  hour  down  a  great  ''hog-back" 
to  the  plains  below.  A  "  swing  mule  "  tripped  up  a  "  lead 
mule,"  and  the  stage — with  myself  on  the  box — ran  over 
the  whole  six,  and  when  the  driver  and  I  separated  our- 
selves from  the  mules,  shreds  of  harness,  splinters,  hair, 
hide,  cargo,  and  cactus  plants  I  began  to  formulate  the 
intelligence  that  stage-coaching  was  dangerous. 

While  riding  in  an  army  ambulance  with  Major  Viele, 
of  the  First  Cavalry,  and  the  late  Lieutenant  Clark,  of 
the  Tenth,  the  brake-beam  broke  on  the  descent  of  a  hill, 


*S° 


PONY   TRACKS 


and  we  only  hit  the  ground  in  the  high  places  for  about  a 
mile  I  will  not  insist  that  every  man  can  hold  his  breath 
for  five  consecutive  minutes,  but  I  did  it.  Thereupon  I 
formulated  vows  and  pledges.  But  like  the  weak  creature 
I  am,  I  ignored  all  this  and  got  into  one  at  Chihuahua  last 
winter,  and  first  and  last  did  five  hundred  miles  of  jolting, 
with  all  the  incident  and  the  regulation  accident  which 


A    COACHERO 


COACHING   IN   CHIHUAHUA  153 

goes  to  make  up  that  sort  of  thing.  Now  I  like  to  think 
that  I  have  been  through  it  all,  and  am  alive  and  un- 
maimed  ;  and  I  take  a  great  deal  of  comfort  in  knowing 
that,  however  I  may  meet  my  end,  a  stage-coach  will  be 
in  no  way  connected  with  it. 

On  the  trip  out  we  had  mules.  They  were  black  and 
diminutive.  To  me  a  Mexican  mule  seems  to  be  the 
Chinaman  of  the  dumb  animals.  They  are  enduring  be- 
yond comprehension,  and  they  have  minds  which  are 
patient,  yet  alert  and  full  of  guile.  The  Mexican  coach- 
eros  have  their  mules  trained,  as  bankers  do  their  depos- 
itors in  our  land.  They  back  up  against  a  wall  and  stand 
in  line  while  one  by  one  they  are  harnessed.  In  the  early 
morning  I  liked  to  see  the  lantern -light  glorify  the  little 
black  creatures  against  the  adobe  wall,  and  hear  the  big 
coachero  talk  to  his  beasts  in  that  easy,  familiar  way  and 
with  that  mutual  comprehension  which  is  lost  to  those  of 
the  human  race  who  have  progressed  beyond  the  natural 
state.  This  coachman  was  an  enormous  man — big,  bony, 
and  with  Sullivanesque  shoulders,  gorilla  hands,  and  a 
blue-black  buccaneer  beard  ;  and  but  for  a  merry  brown  eye 
and  a  mouth  set  in  perpetual  readiness  to  grin  he  would 
have  belonged  to  the  "  mild-mannered  "  class,  to  which, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  did  not.  It  is  written  in  the  lease 
of  his  land  that  he  shall  drive  the  Bavicora  ranche  coach 
— it's  fief-service,  it's  feudal,  and  it  carries  one  back.  If 
the  little  mules  and  ponies  did  not  stand  in  the  exact  six 
feet  of  ground  where  he  wanted  them,  he  grabbed  hold  of 
them  and  moved  them  over  to  the  place  without  a  word, 
and  after  being  located  they  never  moved  until  he  yanked 
or  lifted  them  to  their  place  at  the  pole.  The  guards  were 
Mexican  Indians — hair  cut  a  la  Cosaques,  big  straw  hats, 
serapes,  and  munitions  of  war.  William,  whose  ancestors 
had  emigrated  from  the  Congo  region  before  the  war,  was 


154  PONY   TRACKS 

to  cook.  He  was  also  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  to 
Mr.  H.  and  myself  in  this  strange  land,  and  he  made  all 
things  possible  by  his  tact  and  zeal  in  our  behalf.  Will- 
iam knows  every  one  in  the  State  of  Chihuahua,  and  he 
is  constantly  telling  us  of  the  standing  and  glittering  posi- 
tion of  the  inhabitants  of  the  mud  huts  which  we  pass, 
until  it  sounds  like  that  ghastly  array  of  intelligence  with 
which  a  society  reporter  quickens  the  social  dead  in  a 
Sunday  newspaper. 

At  night  we  stay  at  the  different  ranches,  and,  rolling 
ourselves  up  in  our  blankets,  we  lie  down  on  the  mud 
floors  to  sleep.  It's  not  so  bad  after  one  becomes  used 
to  it,  albeit  the  skin  wears  off  one's  femur  joint.  The 
Mexican  hen  is  as  conscientious  here  as  elsewhere,  and 
we  eat  eggs.  The  Mexican  coffee  is  always  excellent  in 
quality,  but  the  people  make  it  up  into  a  nerve-jerking 
dose,  which  will  stand  hot -water  in  quantities.  Nearly 
all  travellers  are  favorably  impressed  with  the  frejoles  and 
tortillas  of  the  country.  The  beans  are  good,  but  as  old 
General  Taylor  once  said,  "  They  killed  more  men  than  did 
bullets  in  the  Mexican  War."  Of  the  tortillas  I  will  say,  as 
my  philosophical  friend,  Mr.  Poultney  Bigelow,  says  of  the 
black  bread  of  the  Russian  soldier, "  It's  a  good  strong  food 
to  march  and  fight  on,"  which  can  in  no  way  be  a  recom- 
mendation of  its  palatability. 

The  coach  starts  by  gray  dawn,  and  we  are  aroused  at 
an  early  hour.  The  white  men  take  sponge- baths  in  a 
wash-basin,  and  the  native  who  stands  about  deep  in  the 
folds  of  his  serape  fails  utterly  to  comprehend.  He  evi- 
dently thinks  a  lot,  but  he  doesn't  say  anything.  I  sup- 
pose it  seems  like  "  clay-eating  "  or  penitent  mutilations 
to  him — not  exactly  insanity,  but  a  curious  custom,  at  any 
rate.  On  the  return  trip  we  have  a  half- broken  team 
of  buckskin  broncos,  which  have  to  be  "  hooked  up  "  with 


COACHING   IN   CHIHUAHUA  157 

great  stealth.  And  when  the  coachman  had  climbed  quietly 
on  to  the  box  and  we  were  inside,  the  guards  let  go  of  the 
team,  and  the  coachman  cracked  his  whip,  while  we  looked 
out  of  the  window  and  held  our  breath.  Then  there  were 
Horse  Pyrotechniques !  Ground  and  Lofty  Tumbling! 
Greatest  Show  on  Earth !  for  about  a  minute,  when  we 
made  a  start  down  the  big  road — or  didn't,  as  the  case  might 
be.  After  the  first  round  we  often  had  to  get  out,  and, 
two  ponies  having  got  themselves  into  the  same  collar, 
we  would  then  rearrange  them  for  better  luck  next  time. 

In  Mexico  they  drive  four  mules  abreast  in  the  lead 
and  two  on  the  pole,  which  seems  to  be  an  excellent  way. 
Mexican  coachmen  generally  keep  "  belting"  their  stock 
and  yelling  "  Underlay-nula /"  which  is  both  picturesque 
and  unintelligible.  Our  man  was,  however,  better  edu- 
cated. Forty  or  fifty  miles  is  a  day's  journey,  but  the  ex- 
act distance  is  so  dependent  on  the  roads,  the  load,  and 
the  desire  to  "  get  thar"  that  it  varies  greatly. 

We  pass  the  Guerrero  stage  as  it  bowls  along,  and  hun- 
dreds of  heavy,  creeking  ox-carts,  as  they  draw  slowly 
over  the  yellow  landscape,  with  their  freight  to  and  from 
the  mines.  Bunches  of  sorrowful  burros,  with  corn,  wood, 
pottery,  and  hay,  part  as  we  sweep  along  through  and 
by  them. 

We  have  the  inspiring  vista  of  Chihuahua  before  us  all 
the  time.  It  is  massive  in  its  proportions  and  opalescent 
in  color.  There  are  torquois  hills,  dazzling  yellow  fore- 
grounds—  the  palette  of  the  "  rainbow  school  "  is  every- 
where. There  are  little  mud  houses,  ranches,  and  dirty 
little  adobe  towns  to  pass,  which  you  must  admire,  though 
you  may  not  like  them.  Gaunt  cattle  wander  in  their 
search  for  grass  and  water,  and  women  squat  by  the  river- 
bed engaged  in  washing  or  filling  their  ollas. 

The  people  are  enchanting.     It  is  like  reading  the  Bible 


158  PONY   TRACKS 

to  look  at  them,  because  it  is  so  unreal ;  yet  there  they 
are  before  one,  strange  and  mysterious,  and,  like  other 
things  which  appeal  to  one's  imagination,  it  would  be  a 
sad  thing  if  one  were  to  understand  them.  One  is  tempted 
to  think  that  the  people  of  our  Northern  races  know  too 
much  for  their  own  good.  It  seems  remorseless,  but  it 
is  so.  When  I  heard  the  poor  Mexican  asked  why  he 
thought  it  had  not  rained  in  eighteen  months,  he  said, 
"  Because  God  wills  it,  I  suppose ;"  we  were  edified  by 
the  way  they  shifted  the  responsibility  which  Farmer 
Dunn  in  our  part  of  the  world  so  cheerfully  assumes. 

One  afternoon  we  were  on  a  down-grade,  going  along 
at  a  fair  pace,  when  a  wheel  struck  a  stone,  placed  there 
by  some  freighter  to  block  his  load.  It  heaved  the  coach, 
pulled  out  the  king-pin,  and  let  the  big  Concord  down  and 
over  on  its  side.  The  mules  went  on  with  the  front  wheels, 
pulling  Jack  off  the  box,  while  we  who  were  on  top  de- 
scribed a  graceful  parabolic  curve  and  landed  with  three 
dull  thuds.  I  was  caught  under  the  coach  by  one  leg 
and  held  there.  A  guard  inside  made  all  haste  to  crawl 
out  through  a  window,  and  after  a  bit  I  was  released. 
We  were  all  pretty  badly  bruised  up,  and  Mr.  H.  had  his 
foot  broken.  The  mules  were  recovered,  however,  the 
coach  righted,  and  we  were  again  off.  We.  made  the 
town  of  Tamochica  that  night,  and  the  town-folks  were 
kind  and  attentive.  They  made  crutches,  heated  water, 
and  sent  a  man  to  the  creek  to  catch  leeches  to  put  on 
our  wounds.  Two  men  were  shot  in  a  house  near  by 
during  the  night,  and  for  a  few  minutes  there  was  a 
lively  fusillade  of  pistol  shots.  It  was  evident  that  life 
in  Tamochica  would  spoil  a  man's  taste  for  anything 
quiet,  and  so  as  soon  as  we  could  move  we  did  it. 

We  passed  an  old  church,  and  were  shown  two  Jesuits 
who  had   been   dead  over  a  hundred  years.     They  were 


OF  THE 


COACHING   IN   CHIHUAHUA  161 

wonderfully  preserved,  and  were  dressed  in  full  regalia. 
I  wondered  by  what  embalmer's  art  it  had  been  accom- 
plished. 

A  guard  of  punchers  met  us  to  conduct  us  over  a 
mountain-pass.  They  were  dressed  in  terra-cotta  buck- 
skin trimmed  with  white  leather,  and  were  armed  for  the 
largest  game  in  the  country.  The  Bavicora  coach  has 
never  been  robbed,  and  it  is  never  going  to  be — or,  at  least 
that  is  the  intention  of  the  I-F  folks.  One  man  can  rob 
a  stage-coach  as  easily  as  he  could  a  box  of  sardines,  but 
with  outriders  before  and  behind  it  takes  a  large  party, 
and  even  then  they  will  leave  a  "  hot  trail"  behind  them. 

One  morning  as  I  was  lolling  out  of  the  window  I 
noticed  the  wheel  of  the  coach  pass  over  a  long,  blue 
Roman  candle.  I  thought  it  was  curious  that  a  long,  blue 
Roman  candle  should  be  lying  out  there  on  the  plains, 
when  with  a  sudden  sickening  it  flashed  upon  me — "  giant 
powder !"  The  coach  was  stopped,  and  we  got  out.  The 
road  was  full  of  the  sticks  of  this  high  explosive.  A  man 
was  coming  down  the  road  leading  a  burro  and  picking 
tip  the  things,  and  he  explained  that  they  had  dropped 
out  of  a  package  from  his  bull-wagon  as  he  passed  the 
night  before.  We  didn't  run  over  any  more  pieces.  If 
the  stick  had  gone  off  there  would  have  been  a  little  cloud 
of  dust  on  the  Guerrero  road,  and,  I  hope,  some  regrets 
in  various  parts  of  the  world.  The  incident  cannot  be 
made  startling,  but  it  put  the  occupants  of  the  Bavicora 
•coach  in  a  quiet  train  of  reflection  that  makes  a  man 
religious. 

Now,  as  I  ponder  over  the  last  stage-coach  ride  which 
I  shall  ever  take  on  this  earth,  I  am  conscious  that  it  was 
pleasant,  instructive,  and  full  of  incident.  All  that  might 
have  happened  did  not,  but  enough  did  to  satiate  my 
taste. 


STUBBLE   AND    SLOUGH    IN   DAKOTA 

Now  I  am  conscious  that  all  my  life  I  have  seen  men 
who  owned  shot-guns  and  setter-dogs,  and  that  these  per- 
sons were  wont  at  intervals  to  disappear  from  their  usual 
haunts  with  this  paraphernalia.  Without  thinking,  I  felt 
that  they  went  to  slay  little  birds,  and  for  them  I  enter- 
tained a  good-natured  contempt.  It  came  about  in  this 
wise  that  I  acquired  familiarity  with  "  mark,"  and  "  hie- 
on,"  and  "  No.  6  vis  No.  4's  "  :  by  telegram  I  was  invited 
to  make  one  of  a  party  in  Chicago,  bound  West  on  a 
hunting  expedition.  It  being  one  of  my  periods  of  un- 
rest, I  promptly  packed  up  my  Winchester,  boots,  saddle, 
and  blankets,  wired  "  All  right — next  tram,"  and  crawled 
into  the  "  Limited  "  at  Forty-second  Street. 

"  West "  is  to  me  a  generic  term  for  that  country  in  the 
United  States  which  lies  beyond  the  high  plains,  and  this 
will  account  for  my  surprise  when  I  walked  into  the  pri- 
vate car  at  the  St.  Paul  depot  in  Chicago  and  met  my 
friends  contesting  the  rights  of  occupancy  with  numerous 
setter-dogs,  while  all  about  were  shot-gun  cases  and  boxes 
labelled  "  Ammunition."  After  greetings  I  stepped  to 
the  station  platform  and  mingled  with  the  crowd  —  dis- 
gusted, and  disposed  to  desert. 

A  genial  young  soldier  who  appreciated  the  curves  in 
my  character  followed  me  out,  and  explained,  in  the  full 
flush  of  his  joyous  anticipation,  that  we  were  going  to 
North  Dakota  to   shoot   ducks  and  prairie-  chicken,  and 


STUBBLE  AND   SLOUGH   IN   DAKOTA  163 

that  it  would  be  the  jolliest  sort  of  a  time ;  besides,  it  was 
a  party  of  good  friends.  I  hesitated,  yielded,  and  enlisted 
for  the  enterprise.  Feeling  now  that  I  was  this  far  it 
would  be  good  to  go  on  and  learn  what  there  was  in  the 
form  of  sport  which  charmed  so  many  men  whose  taste  I 


A   DAKOTA   CHICKEN-WAGON 


respected  in  other  matters,  and  once  embarked  I  sum- 
moned my  enthusiasm,  and  tried  to  "  step  high,  wide,  and 
handsome,"  as  the  horsemen  say. 

The  happiness  of  a  hunting-party  is  like  that  of  a  wed- 
ding, so  important  is  it  that  true  love  shall  rule.  The 
piece  de  resistance  of  our  car  was  two  old  generals,  who 
called  each  other  by  an  abbreviation  of  their  first  names, 
and  interrupted  conversations  by  recalling  to  each  other's 
memory  where  some  acres  of  men  were  slain.  ■  "A  little 
more  of  the  roast  beef,  please — yes,  that  was  where  I  was 
shot  in  this  side;"  and  at  night,  when  quiet  reigned  and 
we  sought  sleep,  there  would  be  a  waving  of  the  curtains, 
and  a  voice,  "  Oh,  say,  Blank,  do  you  remember  that  time 
my  horse  was  hit  with  the  twelve-pounder?"  and  it  ban- 
ished dreams.  There  was  a  phlebotomist  from  Pittsburg 
who  had  shot  all  over  the  earth.  He  was  a  thorough 
sportsman,  with  a  code  of  rules  as  complicated  as  the 
common  -  law,  and    he  "  made    up    tough  "  in    his    canvas 


164 


PONY   TRACKS 


shooting-clothes.  There  was  a  young  and  distinguished 
officer  of  the  regular  army  who  had  hunted  men,  which 
excused  him  in  the  paltry  undertaking  before  him  ;  and, 
finally,  three  young  men  who  were  adding  the  accumulated 
knowledge  of  Harvard  to  their  natural  endowments.  For 
myself,  I  did  not  see  how  jack-boots,  spurs,  and  a  Win- 
chester would  lend  themselves  to  the  stubble  and  slough 
of  Dakota,  but  a  collection  was  taken,  and  by  the  time  we 
arrived  in  Valley  City,  Dakota,  I  was  armed,  if  not  ac- 


ON   THE   EDGE   OF  A    SLOUGH 


coutred,  in  the  style  affected  by  double-barrel  men.  All  I 
now  needed  was  an  education,  and  between  the  Doctor, 
who  explained,  expostulated,  and  swore,  and  a  great  many 
"  clean  misses,"  I  wore  on  to  the  high-school  stage.     Like 


STUBBLE  AND   SLOUGH   IN   DAKOTA  165 

the  obliging  person  who  was  asked  if  he  played  on  the 
violin,  I  said  to  myself,  "  I  don't  know,  but  I'll  try." 

In  the  early  morning  three  teams  drove  up  where  our 
car  was  side-tracked,  and  we  embarked  in  them.  The 
shot-gun  man  affects  buck-colored  canvas  clothes,  with 
many  pockets,  and  carries  his  cartridges  in  his  shirt  fronts, 
like  a  Circassian  Cossack.  He  also  takes  the  shells  out  of 
his  gun  before  he  climbs  into  a  wagon,  or  he  immediately 
becomes  an  object  of  derision  and  dread,  or,  what's  worse, 
suddenly  friendless  and  alone.  He  also  refrains  from 
pointing  his  gun  at  any  fellow-sportsman,  and  if  he  inad- 
vertently does  it,  he  receives  a  fusillade  such  as  an  Irish 
drill-sergeant  throws  into  a  recruit  when  he  does  amiss. 
This  day  was  cool  and  with  a  wind  blowing,  and  the  poor 
dogs  leaped  in  delirious  joy  when  let  out  from  their  boxes, 
in  which  they  had  travelled  all  the  way  from  Chicago. 
After  running  the  wire  edge  off  their  nerves  they  were 
gotten  to  range  inside  a  township  site,  and  we  jogged 
along.  The  first  thing  which  interested  me  was  to  hear 
the  Doctor  indicate  to  the  driver  that  he  did  not  care  to 
participate  in  the  driver's  knowledge  of  hunting,  and  that 
in  order  to  save  mental  wear  he  only  had  to  drive  the 
team,  and  stand  fast  when  we  got  out,  in  order  that  from 
the  one  motionless  spot  on  the  prairie  sea  we  could  "  mark 
down  "  the  birds. 

The  immensity  of  the  wheat-fields  in  Dakota  is  aston- 
ishing to  a  stranger.  They  begin  on  the  edge  of  town, 
and  we  drive  all  day  and  are  never  out  of  them,  and  on 
either  side  they  stretch  away  as  far  as  one's  eye  can 
travel.  The  wheat  had  been  cut  and  "  shocked,"  which 
left  a  stubble  some  eight  inches  high.  The  farm-houses 
are  far  apart,  and,  indeed,  not  often  in  sight,  but  as  the 
threshing  was  in  progress,  we  saw  many  groups  of  men 
and  horses,  and  the  great  steam-threshers  blowing  clouds 


J0fi 


A   CONFERENCE   IN   THE   MUD 


of  black  smoke,  and  the  flying  straw  as  it  was  belched 
from  the  bowels  of  the  monsters. 

During  the  heat  of  the  day  the  chickens. lie  in  the  cover 
of  the  grass  at  the  sides  of  the  fields,  or  in  the  rank  growth 
of  some  slough-hole,  but  at  early  morning  and  evening 
they  feed  in  the  wheat  stubble.  As  we  ride  along,  the 
dogs  range  out  in  front,  now  leaping  gracefully  along, 
now  stopping  and  carrying  their  noses  in  the  air  to  detect 
some  scent,  and  finally — "  There's  a  point !  Stop,  driver  !" 
and  we  pile  out,  breaking  our  guns  and  shoving  in  the 
cartridges. 

"  No  hurry — no  hurry,"  says  the  Doctor  ;  "  the  dog  will 
stay  there  a  month."  But,  fired  with  the  anticipations, 
we  move  briskly  up.  "You  take  the  right  and  I'll  take 
the  left.  Don't  fire  over  the  dog,"  adds  the  portly  sports- 
man, with  an  admonishing  frown.  We  go  more  slowly, 
and  suddenly,  with  a  "  whir,"  up  get  two  chickens  and  go 


STUBBLE  AND   SLOUGH   IN   DAKOTA  167 

sailing  off.  Bang!  bang!  The  Doctor  bags  his  and  I 
miss  mine.  We  load  and  advance,  when  up  comes  the 
remainder  of  the  covey,  and  the  bewildering  plenty  of  the 
flying  objects  rattles  me.  The  Doctor  shoots  well,  and 
indeed  prairie-chickens  are  not  difficult,  but  I  am  dis- 
couraged. As  the  great  sportsman  Mr.  Soapy  Sponge 
used  to  say,  "  I'm  a  good  shooter,  but  a  bad  hitter."  It 
was  in  this  distressful  time  that  I  remembered  the  words 
of  the  old  hunter  who  had  charge  of  my  early  education 
in  .45  calibres,  which  ran,  "  Take  yer  time,  sonny,  and  al- 
ways see  your  hind  sight,"  and  by  dint  of  doing  this  I 
soon  improved  to  a  satisfactory  extent.  The  walking 
over  the  stubble  is  good  exercise,  and  it  becomes  fascinat- 
ing to  watch  the  well  -  trained  Llewellyn  setters  "  make 
game,"  or  stand  pointing  with  their  tails  wagging  violently 
in  the  nervous  thrill  of  their  excitement,  then  the  shooting, 
and  the  marking  down  of  the  birds  who  escape  the  fire, 
that  we  may  go  to  them  for  another  "  flush."  With  care 
and  patience  one  can  bag  at  last  the  whole  covey. 

At  noon  we  met  the  other  wagons  in  a  green  swale,  and 
had  lunch,  and,  seated  in  a  row  under  the  shadow  side  of 
a  straw  stack,  we  plucked  chickens,  while  the  phlebotomist 
did  the  necessary  surgery  to  prepare  them  for  the  cook. 
At  three  o'clock  the  soldier,  a  couple  of  residents,  and 
myself  started  together  for  the  evening  shooting.  We 
banged  away  at  a  thousand-yards  range  at  some  teal  on  a 
big  marsh,  but  later  gave  it  up,  and  confined  ourselves  to 
chicken.  In  the  midst  of  a  covey  and  a  lot  of  banging  I 
heard  the  Captain  uttering  distressful  cries.  His  gun  was 
leaning  on  a  wheat  "  shock,"  and  he  was  clawing  himself 
wildly.  "Come,  help  me — I  am  being  eaten  alive."  Sure 
enough  he  was,  for  in  Dakota  there  is  a  little  insect  which 
is  like  a  winged  ant,  and  they  go  in  swarms,  and  their 
bite  is  sharp  and  painful.      I   attempted  his   rescue,  and 


1 68 


PONY    TRACKS 


was  attacked  in  turn,  so  that  we  ended  by  a  precipitous 
retreat,  leaving  the  covey  of  chickens  and  their  protectors,, 
the  ants,  on  the  field. 

We  next  pushed  a  covey  of  grouse  into  some  standing 
oats,  and  were  tempted  to  go  in  a  short  way,  but  some 
farmers  who  were  threshing  on  the  neighboring  hill  blew 
the  engine  whistle  and  made  a  "  sortie,"  whereat  we 
bolted.  At  a  slough  which  we  were  tramping  through 
to  kick  up  some  birds  "  marked  down,"  one  suddenly  got 
up  under  our  feet  and  flew  directly  over  the  Captain,  who 
yelled  "  Don't  shoot !"  as  he  dropped  to  the  ground.     It 


i^W*.^ 


%35 


,-f 


"don't  shoot  !" 


was  a  well-considered  thing  to  do,  since  a  flying  bird  looks 
bigger  than  a  man  to  an  excited  and  enthusiastic  sports- 
man. We  walked  along  through  the  stubble  until  the  red 
sunset  no  longer  gave  sufficient  light,  and  then  got  into 
our  wagon  to  do  the  fourteen  miles  to  our  car  and  supper. 
Late  at  night  we  reached  our  car,  and  from  it  could  hear 
"  the  sound  of  revelry."     The  cook  did  big  Chicago  beef- 


STUBBLE   AND   SLOUGH   IN   DAKOTA  169 

steaks  by  the  half-dozen,  for  an  all  day's  tramp  is  a  sauce 
which  tells. 

After  some  days  at  this  place  we  were  hauled  up  to 
Devil's  Lake,  on  the  Great  Northern  road,  which  locality 
is  without  doubt  the  best  for  duck-shooting  in  Dakota. 
We  were  driven  some  sixteen  miles  to  a  spur  of  the  lake, 
where  we  found  a  settler.  There  were  hundreds  of  teal 
in  the  water  back  of  his  cabin,  and  as  we  took  position 
well  up  the  wind  and  fired,  they  got  up  in  clouds,  and  we 
had  five  minutes  of  shooting  which  was  gluttony.  We 
gave  the  "  bag  "  to  the  old  settler,  and  the  Doctor  admon- 
ished him  to  "  fry  them,"  which  I  have  no  doubt  he  did. 

It  was  six  miles  to  a  pond  said  to  be  the  best  evening 
shooting  about  there,  and  we  drove  over.  There  we  met 
our  other  two  teams  and  another  party  of  sportsmen. 
The  shallow  water  was  long  and  deeply  fringed  with  rank 
marsh  grass.  Having  no  wading-boots  can  make  no  dif- 
ference to  a  sportsman  whose  soul  is  great,  so  I  floundered 
in  and  got  comfortably  wet.  After  shooting  two  or  three 
mud -hens,  under  the  impression  that  they  were  ducks, 
the  Doctor  came  along,  and  with  a  pained  expression  he 
carefully  explained  what  became  of  people  who  did  not 
know  a  teal  from  a  mud -hen,  and  said  further  that  he 
would  let  it  pass  this  time.  As  the  sun  sank,  the  flight 
of  ducks  began,  and  from  the  far  corners  of  the  marsh  I 
saw  puffs  of  smoke  and  heard  the  dull  slump  of  a  report. 

"  Mark — left,"  came  a  voice  from  where  the  young  Har- 
vard man  with  the  peach  complexion  and  the  cream  hair 
had  ensconced  himself  in  the  grass,  and,  sure  enough,  a 
flight  was  coming  towards  my  lair.  I  waited  until  it  was 
nearly  over,  when  I  rose  up  and  missed  two  fine  shots, 
while  the  Harvard  man  scored.  The  birds  fell  well  out 
in  the  pond,  and  he  waded  out  to  retrieve  them. 

As   I  stood   there  the  soft    ooze   of  the   marsh   grad- 


MARK— LEFT 


ually  swallowed  me,  and  when  in  answer  to  the  warning 
"  mark  "  of  my  fellows  I  squatted  down  in  the  black  wa- 
ter to  my  middle,  and  only  held  my  gun  and  cartridges 
up,  I  began  to  realize  that  when  a  teal-duck  is  coming 
down  wind  you  have  got  to  aim  somewhere  into  the 
space  ahead  of  it,  hoping  to  make  a  connection  between 
your  load  of  shot  and  the  bird.  This  I  did,  and  after  a 
time  got  my  first  birds.  The  air  was  now  full  of  flying 
birds — mallards,  spoon-bills,  pintails,  red-heads,  butter-balls, 
gadwalls,  widgeon,  and  canvas-backs  —  and  the  shooting 
was  fast  and  furious.  It  was  a  perfect  revelry  of  slaugh- 
ter. "  Mark — mark."  Bang — bang.  "  What's  the  mat- 
ter of  that  shot?"  The  sun  has  set,  and  no  longer  bathes 
the  landscape  in  its  golden  light,  and  yet   I   sit  in  the 


STUBBLE   AND   SLOUGH    IN    DAKOTA 


171 


water  and  mud  and  indulge  this  pleasurable  taste  for 
gore,  wondering  why  it  is  so  ecstatic,  or  if  my  compan- 
ions will  not  give  over  shooting  presently.  There  is  little 
probability  of  that,  however.  Only  darkness  can  end  the 
miseries  of  the  poor  little  teal  coming  home  to  their 
marsh,  and  yet  with  all  my  sentimental  emotions  of  sym- 
pathy I  deplore  a  miss.  If  slough-shooting  has  a  draw- 
back, it  is  its  lack  of  action — it  is  a  calm,  deliberate  shed- 
ding of  blood,  and  a  wounding  of  many  birds,  who  die  in 
the  marshes,  or  become  easy  prey  for  the  hawks,  and  it's 
as  cold-blooded  as  sitting  in  water  can  make  it. 

We  give  over  at  last,  and  the  fortunates  change  their 
wet  clothes,  while  those  who  have  no  change  sit  on  the 
seat  knee-deep  in  dead  birds  and  shiver  while  we  rattle 
homeward.     Our  driver  gets  himself  lost,  and  we  bring  up 


fpp 


,■*"• 


MARK  !" 


172 


PONY   TRACKS 


against  a  wire  fence.  Very  late  at  night  we  struck  the 
railroad,  and  counted  telegraph  poles  and  travelled  east 
until  the  lights  of  the  town  twinkled  through  the  gloom. 
Once  in  the  car,  we  find  the  creature  comfort  which  rec- 


TROOPING   HOMEWARD   IN   THE   AFTER-GLOW 


onciles  one  to  life,  and  we  vote  the  day  a  red-letter  one. 
The  goose  -  shooting  came  later  than  our  visit,  but  the 
people  tell  marvellous  tales  of  their  numbers.  They  em- 
ploy special  guns  in  their  pursuit,  which  are  No.  4  gauge, 
single -barrelled,  and  very  long.  They  throw  buckshot 
point  -  blank  two  hundred  yards,  and  are,  indeed,  curi- 
ous-looking arms.  The  chicken-shooting  is  not  laborious, 
since  one  rides  in  a  wagon,  and  a  one -lunged,  wooden- 
legged  man  is  as  good  as  a  four-mile  athlete  at  it.  He 
must  know  setter-dogs,  who  are  nearly  as  complicated  as 


STUBBLE   AND   SLOUGH   IN   DAKOTA  173 

women  in  their  temper  and  ways  ;  he  must  have  a  nose 
for  cover,  and  he  can  be  taught  to  shoot ;  he  can  keep 
statistics  if  he  desires,  but  his  first  few  experiences  behind 
the  dogs  will  not  tempt  him  to  do  that  unless  his  modesty 
is  highly  developed.  If  he  become  a  shot-gun  enthusiast 
he  will  discover  a  most  surprising  number  of  fellows — doc- 
tors, lawyers,  butchers,  farmers,  and  Indians  not  taxed — 
all  willL     to  go  with  him  or  to  be  interested  in  his  tales. 

The  car  was  to  be  attached  to  an  express  train  bound 
west  that  night,  to  my  intense  satisfaction,  and  I  crawled 
into  the  upper  berth  to  dream  of  bad-lands  elk,  soldiers, 
cowboys,  and  only  in  the  haze  of  fleeting  consciousness 
could  I  distinguish  a  voice — 

"  Remington,  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  fall  out  of 
that  upper  berth  again  to-night." 


POLICING   THE   YELLOWSTONE 

"Captain  Anderson  —  he's  the  superintendent,  you 
know — started  to-day  for  the  south  of  the  Park  ;  some 
trouble,  I  believe,  down  there.  A  scout  thought  the 
buffalo  were  being  disturbed,"  said  Lieutenant  Lindsley 
to  me  at  the  Mammoth  Hot  Springs  Hotel,  near  the  en- 
trance to  the  Park. 

"That's  unfortunate.     Can  I  overtake  him?" 

"  It's  nearly  four  o'clock,  but  as  I  am  going  down  to 
our  camp  at  the  Lower  Geyser  Basin,  we  can  start  now, 
and  by  travelling  at  night  we  can  catch  him  before  he 
pulls  out  in  the  morning,  I  think,"  said  the  yellow-leg. 

So  putting  our  belongings  into  a  double  surry,  we  start- 
ed hot-foot  through  the  Wonderland,  leaving  a  band  of 
Dakota  chicken  -  shooters  standing  on  the  steps  waving 
their  adieux.  It  verified  all  my  predictions  —  men  who 
shoot  chickens  belong  in  a  stage-coach  —  they  are  a 
"  scrubby  wagon  outfit,"  as  the  cowboys  say. 

Posed  on  the  trestled  road,  I  looked  back  at  the  Golden 
Gate  Pass.  It  is  one  of  those  marvellous  vistas  of  moun- 
tain scenery  utterly  beyond  the  pen  or  brush  of  any  man. 
Paint  cannot  touch  it,  and  words  are  wasted.  War,  storms 
at  sea,  and  mountain  scenery  are  bigger  than  any  expres- 
sion little  man  has  ever  developed.  Mr.  Thomas  Moran 
made  a  famous  stagger  at  this  pass  in  his  painting ;  and 
great  as  is  the  painting,  when  I  contemplated  the  pass 
itself  I  marvelled  at  the  courage  of  the  man  who  dared 
the  deed.     But  as  the  stages  of  the  Park  Company  run 


POLICING   THE   YELLOWSTONE  175 

over  this  road,  every  tourist  sees  its  grandeur,  and  bangs 
away  with  his  kodak. 

As  we  pulled  up  in  front  of  the  tents  of  the  rest  camp, 
one  of  those  mountain  thunder-storms  set  in,  and  it  was 
as  though  the  New  York  fire  department  had  concen- 
trated its  nozzles  on  the  earth.  The  place  was  presided 
over  by  a  classic  Irishman  by  the  name  of  Larry,  who 
speedily  got  a  roaring-hot  beefsteak  and  some  coffee  on 
the  table,  and  then  busied  himself  conducting  growing 
pools  of  rain-water  out  of  the  tent.  Larry  is  justly  fa- 
mous on  the  road  for  his  bonhomie  and  Celtic  wit. 

At  an  early  hour  we  arose  and  departed  —  the  pale 
moon  shining  through  the  mist  of  the  valley,  while 
around  us  rose  the  ghostly  pines.  We  cowered  under 
our  great-coats,  chilled  through,  and  saddened  at  remem- 
brances of  the  warm  blankets  which  we  had  been  com- 
pelled to  roll  out  of  at  this  unseemly  hour.  At  7.30  we 
broke  into  one  of  those  beautiful  natural  parks,  the  Lower 
Geyser  Basin,  with  the  sun  shining  on  the  river  and  the 
grass,  and  spotting  the  row  of  tents  belonging  to  D  Troop, 
Sixth  United.  States  Cavalry.  Captain  Scott  met  us- at 
the  door,  a  bluff  old  trooper  in  field  rig  and  a  welcoming 
smile.  After  breakfast  a  soldier  brought  up  Pat  Rooney. 
Pat  was  a  horse  from  the  ground  up  ;  he  came  from  Mis- 
souri, but  he  was  a  true  Irishman  nevertheless,  as  one 
could  tell  from  his  ragged  hips,  long  drooping  quarters, 
and  a  liberal  show  of  white  in  his  eye,  which  seemed  to 
say  to  me,  "  Aisy,  now,  and  I'm  a  dray-horse  ;  but  spare 
the  brad,  or  I'll  put  ye  on  yer  back  in  the  bloomin'  dust, 
I  will."  The  saddle  was  put  on,  and  I  waited,  until  pres- 
ently along  came  the  superintendent,  with  his  scout  Bur- 
gess, three  soldiers,  and  nine  pack-mules  with  their  creak- 
ing aparejos,  and  their  general  air  of  malicious  mischief. 

Pointing  to   a  range  of  formidable  -  looking  hills,  the 


176 


PONY   TRACKS 


captain  said,  "  We  will  pull  in  about  there,"  and  we 
mounted  and  trotted  off  down  the  road.  What  a  man 
really  needs  when  he  does  the  back  stretches  of  the  Yel- 
lowstone Park  is  a  boat  and  a  balloon,  but  cavalrymen 
ride  horses  in  deference  to  traditions.  My  mount,  Pat, 
was  as  big  as  a  stable  door,  and  as  light  as  a  puff-ball  on 
his  pins.  As  Mr.  Buckram  said,  "  The  'eight  of  a  'oss  'as 
nothing  to  do  with  'is  size,"  but  Patrick  was  a  horse  a 
man  needed  two  legs  for.  Besides,  he  had  a  mouth  like 
a  bull,  as  does  every  other  animal  that  wears  that  impos- 
sible bit  which  Uncle  Sam  gives  his  cavalry.  We  got 
along  swimmingly,  and,  indeed,  I  feel  considerable  grati- 
tude to  Pat  for  the  two  or  three  thousand  times  he  saved 
my  life  on  the  trip  by  his  agility  and  sureness  of  foot. 


BURGESS,   NEARLY    FORTY-FIVE   YEARS   A   SCOUT 


POLICING   THE   YELLOWSTONE  177 

Burgess,  the  scout,  was  a  fine  little  piece  of  a  man,  who 
had  served  the  government  with  credit  for  over  thirty 
years.  He  had  breasted  the  high  divide  in  a  dozen  places, 
had  Apache  bullets  whistle  around  and  through  him,  and 
withal  was  modest  about  it.  He  was  a  quiet  person,  with 
his  instinct  of  locality  as  well  developed  as  an  Indian's, 
and  contented  with  life,  since  he  only  wanted  one  thing — 
a  war.  I  think  he  travelled  by  scent,  since  it  would  have 
been  simple  enough  to  have  gone  over  easier  places ;  but 
Burgess  despised  ease,  and  where  the  fallen  timber  was 
thickest  and  the  slopes  6o°,  there  you  would  find  Burgess 
and  his  tight  little  pony  picking  along. 

Both  Captains  Anderson  and  Scott  have  a  pronounced 
weakness  for  geysers,  and  were  always  stopping  at  every 
little  steam-jet  to  examine  it.  I  suppose  they  feel  a  per- 
sonal responsibility  in  having  them  go  regularly ;  one  can 
almost  imagine  a  telegram  to  "  turn  on  more  steam." 
They  rode  recklessly  over  the  geyser  formation,  to  my 
discomfort,  because  it  is  very  thin  and  hazardous,  and  to 
break  through  is  to  be  boiled.  One  instinctively  objects 
to  that  form  of  cooking.  The  most  gorgeous  colors  are 
observed  in  this  geyser  formation  ;  in  fact,  I  have  never 
seen  nature  so  generous  in  this  respect  elsewhere.  I  won- 
dered that  the  pack-mules  did  not  walk  into  the  sissing 
holes,  but  I  suspect  a  mule  is  a  bit  of  a  geologist  in  his 
way,  and  as  most  of  them  have  been  in  the  government 
service  for  thirty  or  forty  years,  they  have  learned  how  to 
conserve  their  well-being.  There  is  a  tradition  that  one 
was  considerably  overdone  once  in  a  geyser-hole,  so  they 
may  have  taken  warning.  Who  can  understand  a  mule? 
The  packer  leads  the  old  bell -mare  off  to  a  feeding- 
ground,  and  the  whole  bunch  of  mules  go  racing  after 
her,  and  chains  wouldn't  hold  them.  The  old  bell-mare 
takes  across  a  nasty  chasm  or  a  dirty  slough-hole,  and  as 


THE   BELL-MARE   OVER   A   BAD    PLACE 


the  tinkle  of  the  little  cow-bell  is  losing  itself  in  the  tim- 
ber beyond,  one  after  another  they  put  their  ears  forward 
and  follow  on. 

We  passed  up  a  cleft  in  the  hills,  and  were  swallowed 
up  in  the  pine  and  cedar  forest.  Presently  the  cleft 
ended,  and  nothing  but  good  honest  climbing  was  in 
front.  There  began  my  first  experience  in  riding  over 
the  fallen  timber,  which  obstructs  all  the  northwestern 
Rocky  Mountains.  Once  up  in  British  Columbia  I  did 
it,  but  had  trails,  and  I  childishly  imagined  that  there 
must  also  be  trails  wherever  men  wanted  to  go.  Criss- 
cross and  all  about  lay  the  great  peeled  logs,  and  travel 


POLICING   THE   YELLOWSTONE  '  179 

was  slow,  toilsome,  and  with  anything  but  horses  trained 
to  it  would  have  been  impossible. 

A  good  horse  or  mule,  once  accustomed,  makes  little 
of  it,  but  on  the  steep  down  grades  the  situation  is  com- 
plicated by  fallen  logs, which  it  is  necessary  to  "bucket" 
over,  and  then  stop  dead  on  an  incline  of  500,  with  a 
couple  of  miles  of  tumble  if  he  fails.  The  timber  grew 
thicker,  and  when  Burgess  would  get  us  in  a  hopeless 
sort  of  place,  Captain  A.  would  sing  out  to  Captain  S., 
"Burgess  is  on  the  trail  now";  and  when  it  was  fairly 
good  going,  M  Now  he  is  off."  But  nothing  could  rattle 
Mr.  Burgess,  and  he  continued  calmly  on  his  journey,  the 
destination  of  which,  it  seemed,  could  be  nothing  short  of 
the  moon.  Finally  we  found  ourselves  seemingly  so  in- 
extricably tangled  up  that  even  Burgess  had  to  scratch 
his  head.  One  mule  was  hung  up  hopelessly,  while  the 
rest  crowded  around  us  into  the  chevaux-de-frise  of  logs, 
and  merrily  wound  through  the  labyrinth  the  old  Sixth 
Cavalry  "  gag,"  "  Here's  where  we  trot." 

To  complete  the  effect  of  this  passage  it  began  to  rain, 
and  shortly  to  pelt  us  with  hailstones,  so  we  stopped 
under  some  trees  to  let  it  pass,  and  two  people  who 
should  know  better  dismounted  and  got  their  saddles 
wet,  while  another,  more  wise  in  his  generation,  sat  tight, 
and  was  rewarded  later  for  his  display  of  intelligence. 
By-and-by,  wet  and  tired  of  fallen  timber,  we  came  into 
the  Little  Fire -hole  Basin,  and  found  buffalo  signs  in 
abundance.  We  were  in  great  hopes  of  seeing  some  of 
these  animals,  but  I  may  as  well  add  that  only  one  was 
seen  on  the  trip,  though  there  was  fresh  spoor,  and  they 
were  undoubtedly  about.  We  found  no  pony  tracks 
either,  which  was  more  to  the  soldiers'  liking,  since  they 
are  intrusted  with  the  protection  of  the  Park  against 
poachers. 


180  PONY   TRACKS 

In  this  way  squads  are  sent  over  the  Park,  and  instruct- 
ed not  to  follow  the  regular  trails,  but  to  go  to  the  most 
unfrequented  places,  so  that  they  may  at  any  time  hap- 
pen on  a  malicious  person,  and  perhaps  be  able  to  do  as 
one  scout  did — photograph  the  miscreant  with  his  own 
camera. 

After  a  good  day's  march  we  made  camp  by  a  little 
lake,  and  picketed  our  horses,  while  the  mules  rar^  loose 
around  the  bell -mare.  Our  appetites  had  been  sharp- 
ened by  a  nine  hours'  fast,  when  a  soldier  called  us  to  the 
"  commissaries  "  which  were  spread  out  on  a  pack  canvas. 
It  was  the  usual  military  "  grub,"  and  no  hungry  man  can 
find  fault  with  that. 

"  Any  man  who  can't  eat  bacon  can't  fight,"  as  Captain 
Scott  said  ;  so  if  any  reader  wants^to  be  a  soldier  he  must 
have  a  mania  for  bacon,  it  seems.  "  This  is  the  stuff  that 
makes  soldiers  brave,"  he  added,  as  the  coffee-pot  came 
around,  and  we  fell  to,  and  left  a  dreary  waste  of  empty 
tins  for  the  cook  to  pick  up.  We  lighted  our  pipes  after 
the  banquet  on  the  grass,  and  walked  down  to  the  shore 
of  the  beautiful  pond,  which  seemed  so  strangely  situated 
up  there  on  the  very  crest  of  the  continental  divide. 
There  are  only  three  seasons  in  these  altitudes,  which  the 
boys  divide  into  July,  August,  and  Winter,  and  the  nights 
are  always  chilly.  An  inch  or  two  of  snow  may  fall  even 
in  mid-summer.  In  winter  the  snow  covers  the  ground 
to  a  great  depth,  as  we  can  tell  by  the  trees.  Nothing 
grows  but  rather  stunted  fir  and  pine  and  a  little  grass  of 
the  most  hardy  variety.  The  rounds  of  the  Park  are  then 
made  by  mounting  the  cavalry  on  the  ski,  or  Norwegian 
snow-shoe,  and  with  its  aid  men  travel  the  desolate  snow- 
clad  wilderness  from  one  "  shack  "  to  another.  Small 
squads  of  three  or  four  men  are  quartered  in  these  re- 
mote recesses  of  the  savage  mountains,  and  remain  for 


DOWN   THE   MOUNTAIN 


POLICING   THE  YELLOWSTONE 


183 


eight  months  on  a  stretch.  The  camps  are  provisioned 
for  the  arctic  siege,  and  what  is  stranger  yet  is  that  sol- 
diers rather  like  it,  and  freely  apply  for  this  detached  ser- 
vice. There  is  little  of  the  "  pomp  and  vanity  "  in  this 
soldiering,  and  it  shows  good  spirit  on  the  part  of  the 
enlisted  men.  They  are  dressed  in  fur  caps,  California 
blanket  coats,  leggings,  and  moccasins  —  a  strange  uni- 
form for  a  cavalryman,  and  also  quite  a  commentary  on 
what  are  commonly  called  the  vicissitudes  of  the  ser- 
vice. 

In  the  early  morning  our  tent  was  pulled  down,  and 
our  bedding  packed  off  almost  before  we  had  disentan- 


GETTING   GRUB 


184  PONY   TRACKS 

gled  ourselves  from  its  sheltering  folds.  The  well-trained 
troopers  went  about  their  task  of  breaking  camp  with 
method  and  address.  Burgess  and  a  young  soldier  pulled 
a  reluctant  strawberry-blond  mule  out  of  the  line  of  pack- 
animals,  and  throwing  a  blind  over  his  face,  proceeded  to 
lay  the  blanket  and  adjust  the  aparejo.  With  a  heave  the 
cincha  is  hauled  tight,  and  the  load  laid  on,  while  the  ex- 
pert throws  the  "  diamond  hitch,"  and  the  mule  and  pack 
are  integral  parts.  This  packing  of  nine  mules  was  ac- 
complished with  great  rapidity,  and  laying  our  saddles 
carefully,  we  mounted  and  followed  the  scouts  off  down 
the  trail  in  single  file  on  a  toilsome  march  which  would 
probably  not  end  until  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. We  wound  around  the  spurs  of  hills,  and  then 
across  a  marsh,  with  its  yielding"  treacherous  bottom, 
where  the  horses  floundered,  and  one  mule  went  down 
and  made  the  mud  and  water  fly  in  his  struggles,  while 
my  apprehensions  rose  to  fever-pitch  as  I  recognized  my 
grip-sack  on  his  load,  and  not  likely  to  be  benefited  by 
the  operation.  At  the  head-waters  of  these  rivers — and 
it  may  be  said  that  this  little  purling  brook  is  really  the 
source  of  the  Missouri  itself,  although  not  so  described- 
there  is  abundance  of  soggy  marsh,  which  makes  travel 
extremely  difficult.  In  one  place  Captain  Anderson's 
horse  went  belly-deep  on  a  concealed  quag  made  by  a 
stream  coming  out  of  the  side  of  the  hill,  and  rolling 
back,  fell  heavily  on  the  captain,  and  for  a  time  it  was 
rather  a  question  whether  the  horse  would  get  out  or 
not;  but  by  dint  of  exertion  he  regained  firm  ground. 
When  a  big  strong  horse  gets  into  a  slough  the  dorsal 
action  is  terrific,  and  it  is  often  necessary  to  dismount 
quickly  to  aid  .him  out.  We  crossed  the  great  divide  of 
the  continent  at  a  place  where  the  slope  was  astonish- 
ingly steep  and  the  fallen  timber  thickly  strewn.     It  was 


WORKING  UP  THE   DIVIDE 


POLICING  THE   YELLOWSTONE  187 

as  thoroughly  experimental  travelling  as  I  have  ever  seen, 
unless  possibly  over  a  lava-rock  formation  which  I  essayed 
last  winter  on  the  western  slope  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  in 
Chihuahua  ;  and  yet  there  is  a  fascination  about  being 
balanced  on  those  balloonlike  heights,  where  a  misstep 
means  the  end  of  horse  and  rider.  I  was  glad  enough, 
though,  when  we  struck  the  parklike  levels  of  the  Pitch- 
stone  plateau  as  the  scene  of  our  further  progression.  If 
one  has  never  travelled  horseback  over  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains there  is  a  new  and  distinct  sensation  before  him 
quite  as  vigorous  as  his  first  six-barred  gate,  or  his  first 
yacht-race  with  the  quarter-rail  awash. 

All  through  the  Park  were  seen  hundreds  of  wild-geese, 
so  tame  that  they  would  hardly  fly  from  us.  It  was  a 
great  temptation  to  shoot,  but  the  doughty  captain  said 
he  would  run  me  off  the  reservation  at  a  turkey-trot  if  I 
did  shoot,  and  since  I  believed  him  I  could  restrain  my- 
self. The  streams  and  marshes  were  full  of  beaver-dams, 
and  the  little  mud-and-stick  houses  rose  from  the  pools, 
while  here  and  there  we  saw  the  purl  of  the  quiet  water 
as  they  glided  about.  This  part  is  exactly  as  primitive  as 
when  the  lonely  trapper  Coulter  made  his  famous  journey 
through  it,  and  one  cannot  but  wonder  what  must  have 
been  his  astonishment  at  the  unnatural  steaming  and  boil- 
ing of  the  geysers,  which  made  the  Park  known  from  his 
descriptions  as  "  Coulter's  Hell." 

From  the  breast  of  the  mountains  overlooking  the 
great  Shoshonee  Lake  there  opened  up  the  most  tremen- 
dous sight  as  the  waters  stretched  away  in  their  blue 
placidity  to  the  timbered  hills.  The  way  down  to  the 
shores  was  the  steepest  place  I  have  ever  seen  horses  and 
mules  attempt.  In  one  place,  where  the  two  steep  sides 
of  the  canon  dipped  together,  it  was  cut  by  a  nasty  seam 
some  six  feet  deep,  which  we  had  to  "  bucket  over  "  and 


188  PONY   TRACKS 

maintain  a  footing  on  the  other  side.  After  finding  my- 
self safely  over,  I  watched  the  shower  of  pack-mules  come 
sliding  down  and  take  the  jump.  One  mule  was  so  far 
overbalanced  that  for  a  moment  I  thought  he  would  lose 
his  centre  of  gravity,  which  had  been  in  his  front  feet, 
but  he  sprang  across  to  the  opposite  slope  and  was  safe. 
Horses  trained  to  this  work  do  marvels,  and  old  Pat  was 
a  "  topper  "  at  the  business.  I  gave  him  his  head,  and  he 
justified  my  trust  by  negotiating  all  the  details  without  a 
miss.  On  a  sandy  "siding"  he  spread  his  feet  and  slid 
with  an  avalanche  of  detached  hill  side.  Old  Pat's  ears 
stuck  out  in  front  in  an  anxious  way,  as  if  to  say,  "  If  we 
hit  anything  solid,  I'll  stop  "  ;  while  from  behind  came  the 
cheery  voice  of  Captain  Scott,  "  Here's  where  we  trot." 

On  the  shores  of  the  Shoshonee  we  camped,  and  walked 
over  to  the  famous  Union  Geysers,  which  began  to  boil 
and  sputter,  apparently  for  our  especial  benefit.  In  a  few 
minutes  two  jets  of  boiling  water  shot  a  hundred  feet  in 
air,  and  came  down  in  rain  on  the  other  side,  while  a  rain- 
bow formed  across  it.  The  roar  of  the  great  geysers  was 
awe-inspiring ;  it  was  like  the  exhaust  of  a  thousand  lo- 
comotives, and  Mr.  Burgess  nudged  me  and  remarked, 
"  Hell's  right  under  here." 

Near  the  geysers,  hidden  away  in  a  depression,  we  found 
a  pool  of  water  of  a  beautiful  and  curious  green,  while  not 
twenty  feet  from  it  was  one  of  a  sulphur  yellow.  There 
was  a  big  elk  track  in  the  soft  mud  leading  into  it,  but  no 
counter  track  coming  out.  There  had  been  a  woodland 
tragedy  there. 

The  utility  of  a  geyser-hole  is  not  its  least  attraction  to 
a  traveller  who  has  a  day's  accumulation  of  dust  and  sweat 
on  him.  I  found  one  near  the  camp  which  ran  into  a  lit- 
tle mountain  stream,  and  made  a  tepid  bath,  of  which  I 
availed  myself,  and  also  got  a  cup  of  hot  water,  by  the 


r     "rv€        '  :"i 


«NiveR8lTy 


OF 


POLICING    THE   YELLOWSTONE  I91 

aid  of  which  I  "  policed  my  face,"  as  the  soldiers  call 
shaving. 

The  next  day  we  encountered  one  of  those  great 
spongy  mountain  meadows,  which  we  were  forced  to 
skirt  on  the  rocky  timber- strewn  hill -sides,  until  finally 
we  ventured  into  it.  We  curved  and  zigzagged  through 
its  treacherous  mazes,  fording  and  recrossing  the  stream 
in  search  of  solid  ground.  Burgess's  little  gray  pony  put 
his  foot  forward  in  a  gingerly  way,  and  when  satisfied, 
plunged  in  and  floundered  through.  The  pony  had  a 
positive  genius  for  morasses.  We  followed  him  into  the 
mud,  or  plunged  off  the  steep  sides  into  the  roaring  river, 
and,  to  my  intense  satisfaction,  at  last  struck  a  good  pony 
trail.  "  Now  Burgess  is  off  the  trail !"  we  cried,  whereat 
the  modest  little  scout  grinned  cheerfully.  From  here 
on  it  was  "  fair  and  easy,"  until  we  came  to  the  regu- 
lar stage  -  road,  to  travel  on  which  it  seemed  to  us  a 
luxury. 

This  expedition  is  typical  of  the  manner  of  policing 
the  Park,  and  it  is  generally  monotonous,  toilsome,  and 
uneventful  work ;  and  the  usefulness  of  such  a  chevau- 
ch^e  is  that  it  leaves  the  track  of  the  cavalry  horse-shoe 
in  the  most  remote  parts  of  the  preserve,  where  the 
poacher  or  interloper  can  see  it,  and  become  apprehen- 
sive in  consequence  of  the  dangers  which  attend  his  ope- 
rations. That  an  old  trapper  might  work  quietly  there 
for  a  long  time  I  do  not  doubt,  if  he  only  visited  his  line 
of  traps  in  the  early  morning  or  late  evening  and  was 
careful  of  his  trail,  but  such  damage  as  he  could  do 
would  be  trivial.  Two  regiments  could  not  entirely  pre- 
vent poaching  in  the  mountain  wastes  of  the  great  res- 
ervation, but  two  troops  are  successful  enough  at  the 
task.  It  is  a  great  game-preserve  and  breeding-ground, 
and,  if  not  disturbed,  must  always  give  an  overflow  into 


192  PONY   TRACKS 

Montana,  Wyoming,  and  Idaho,  which  will  make  big 
game  shooting  there  for  years  to  come.  The  unreason- 
ing antipathy  or  malicious  disregard  of  the  American 
pioneer  for  game-laws  and  game- preservation  is  some- 
what excusable,  but  the  lines  of  the  pioneer  are  now  cast 
in  new  places,  and  his  days  of  lawless  abandon  are  done. 
The  regulation  for  the  punishment  of  Park  offenders  is 
inadequate,  and  should  be  made  more  severe.  The  Park 
is  also  full  of  beasts  of  prey,  the  bear  being  very  numer- 
ous. A  fine  grizzly  was  trapped  by  some  of  the  superin- 
tendent's men  and  shipped  to  the  Smithsonian  Institu- 
tion while  I  was  there.  Near  the  Fountain  Hotel  one 
evening  a  young  army  surgeon  and  myself  walked  up  to 
within  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of  a  big  grizzly,  who 
was  not  disposed  to  run  off.  Being  unarmed,  we  con- 
cluded that  our  point  of  view  was  close  enough,  and  as 
the  bear  seemed  to  feel  the  same  way  about  it,  we 
parted. 

Americans  have  a  national  treasure  in  the  Yellowstone 
Park,  and  they  should  guard  it  jealously.  Nature  has 
made  her  wildest  patterns  here,  has  brought  the  boil- 
ing waters  from  her  greatest  depths  to  the  peaks  which 
bear  eternal  snow,  and  set  her  masterpiece  with  pools 
like  jewels.  Let  us  respect  her  moods,  and  let  the  beasts 
she  nurtures  in  her  bosom  live,  and  when  the  man  from 
Oshkosh  writes  his  name  with  a  blue  pencil  on  her  sacred 
face,  let  him  spend  six  months  where  the  scenery  is  cir- 
cumscribed and  entirely  artificial. 


A   MODEL   SQUADRON 

I  AM  not  quite  sure  that  I  should  not  say  "  The  Model 
Colonel,"  since  every  one  knows  men  and  horses  are  much 
alike  when  they  have  first  passed  under  the  eye  of  the 
recruiting  officer  and  the  remount  board,  and  every  one 
knows  that  colonels  are  very  unlike,  so  that  a  model 
squadron  or  a  model  troop  is  certain  to  owe  its  superi- 
ority to  its  commander ;  but  as  we  are  observing  the  pro- 
duct in  this  instance,  let  the  title  stand  as  above  stated. 

The  model  squadron  aforesaid  is  quartered  across  the 
Potomac  from  Washington  in  Fort  Meyer,  which  is  the 
only  purely  cavalry  post  in  the  country.  Everywhere  else 
the  troops  are  mixed,  and  the  commandant  may  be  of 
any  arm  of  the  service.  Here  they  are  all  cavalry,  with 
cavalry  officers  and  cavalry  ideas,  and  are  not  hindered  by 
dismounted  theories,  or  pick-and-shovel  work,  or  any  of 
the  hundreds  of  things  which  hamper  equally  good  "  yel- 
low legs  "  in  other  posts.  There  are  many  passable  mis- 
demeanors in  this  post,  but  only  one  crime,  and  that  is 
bad  riding.  There  is  little  dismounted  work,  and  any  sol- 
dier can  have  his  horse  out  on  a  pass,  so  long  as  he  does 
not  abuse  the  privilege  ;  and  when  he  does,  it's  plenty  of 
walking  falls  to  his  lot. 

There  is  a  large  brick  riding-hall  of  approved  pattern, 

which  enables  the  men  to  do  their  work  in  all  weathers. 

The  four  troops  now  quartered  there  are  from  the  First, 

Seventh,  Eighth,  and  Ninth   regiments,  which  creates   a 

13 


i94 


PONY    TRACKS 


good-natured  rivalry,  very  conducive  to  thorough  work. 
It  is  the  opinion  of  General  Henry  that  one  old  troop 
should  always  be  left  at  this  post  as  a  pace-setter  for  the 
newly  transferred  ones,  which  seems  reasonable. 

Now  to  tell  what  the  preparatory  discipline  is  to  the 
magnificent  riding  which  can  be  seen  any  morning  by 
spectators  who  are  "game  for  a  journey"  to  the  fort  by 
ten  o'clock,  I  must  say  that  General  Guy  V.  Henry  is  a 
flaming  fire  of  cavalry  enthusiasm.     He  has  one  idea — a 


GENERAL   GUY   V.   HENRY,   SEVENTH   UNITED    STATES   CAVALRY 


A   MODEL   SQUADRON  195 

great  broad  expanse  of  principle — ever  so  simple  in  itself, 
but  it  is  basic,  and  nothing  can  become  so  complicated 
that  he  cannot  revert  to  his  simple  idea  and  by  it  regu- 
late the  whole.  It  is  the  individual  training  of  the  horse 
and  rider.  One  bad  rider  or  one  unbroken  horse  can  dis- 
arrange the  whole  troop  movement,  and  "  woe  to  him  " 
who  is  not  up  to  concert  pitch  !  "  Who  is  the  scoundrel, 
the  lummux,  humph?"  and  the  colonel,  who  is  a  brevet- 
brigadier -general,  strides  up  and  down,  and  fire  comes 
from  his  nostrils.  "  Prefer  charges  against  him,  captain  !" 
and  the  worst  befalls.  The  unfortunate  trooper  has  com- 
mitted the  highest  crime  which  the  commandant  of  Fort 
Meyer  knows — he  cannot  ride. 

A  soldier  becomes  a  rider  by  being  bucketed  about  on 
a  bareback  horse,  or  he  dies.  The  process  is  simple,  the 
tanbark  soft,  and  none  have  died  up  to  date,  but  all  have 
attained  the  other  alternative.  This  is  unimportant ;  but 
the  horse  —  it  is  to  his  education  that  the  oceans  of  pa- 
tience and  the  mountains  of  intelligence  are  brought  to 
bear.  It  is  all  in  the  books  if  any  one.  cares  to  go  into  it. 
It  is  the  gathering  of  the  horse ;  it  is  the  legs  carried  to 
the  rear  of  the  girths ;  it  is  the  perfect  hand  and  the  in- 
stant compliance  of  the  horse  with  the  signs  as  indicated 
by  the  rider ;  it  is  the  backing,  the  passaging,  the  leading 
with  either  foot,  and  the  pivoting  on  the  front  legs;  it  is 
the  throwing  of  horses,  the  acquisition  of  gaits,  and  the 
nice  bitting  ;  it  is  one  hundred  little  struggles  with  the 
brute  until  he  comes  to  understand  and  to  know  that  he 
must  do  his  duty.  It  all  looks  beautifully  simple,  but 
in  practice  we  know  that  while  it  is  not  difficult  to 
teach  a  horse,  it  is  quite  another  matter  to  unteach  him, 
so  in  these  horses,  at  least  no  mistakes  have  been  made. 
After  all  this,  one  fine  sunny  Friday  morning  the  people 
drove  out  from  Washington  in  their  traps  and  filed  into 


RIDING   SITTING   ON   LEGS 


the  galleries  and  sat  down — fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
of  the  former  we  are  sure,  and  of  the  latter  we  trust.  The 
colonel  blew  a  whistle — ye  gods,  what  a  sacrilege  against 
all  the  traditions  of  this  dear  old  United  States  army  ! — 
and  in  rode  Captain  Bomus's  troop  of  the  First  Plungers, 
which  I  cannot  but  love,  since  I  am  an  honorary  member 
of  their  officers'  mess,  and  fondly  remember  the  fellows 
who  are  now  sniffing  alkali  dust  down  in  Arizona.  They 
were  riding  with  blankets  and  surcingles,  and  did  their 
part  of  a  drill,  the  sequence  of  which  I  have  forgotten, 
since  it  was  divided  with  the  three  other  troops — Captain 
Bell's,  of  the  Seventh,  Captain  Hughes's,  of  the  Ninth, 
and  Captain  Fountain's,  of  the  Eighth.     I  felt  a  strong 


A    MODEL   SQUADRON 


197 


personal  interest  in  some  of  these  men,  for  memory  took 
me  back  to  a  night's  ride  in  Dakota  with  a  patrol  of  the 
Ninth,  when  they  were  all  wrapped  in  buffalo-skin  over- 
coats, with  white  frost  on  their  lapels ;  the  horses'  noses 
wore  icicles,  and  the  dry  snow  creaked  under  the  tread  of 
the  hoofs  as  we  rode  over  the  starlit  plain  and  through  the 
black  shadows  of  the  coulees.  I  had  pounded  along  also 
through  the  dust  in  the  wake  of  this  troop  of  the  Eighth 
when  it  wasn't  so  cold,  but  was  equally  uncomfortable. 


OVER   THE   HURDLE   BACK   TO    BACK 


The  sharp  commands  of  the  captain  soon  put  the  troop 
in  motion,  and  they  trotted  along  with  a  cadenced  tread, 
every  man  a  part  of  his  horse  ;  they  broke  into  fours  and 
wheeled  to  the  right  about,  then  into  line  and  wound 


198  PONY   TRACKS 

themselves  up  in  the  "  spiral,"  and  unwound  again,  and 
soon  brought  order  out  of  a  mess,  and  the  regular  canter 
was  ever  the  same.  Then  low  hurdles  were  strung  across 
the  hall,  and  by  column  of  fours  the  troop  went  over, 
never  breaking  the  formation  ;  to  the  rear  they  turned 
and  back  again  ;  finally  they  took  the  obstacle  in  line,  and 
every  horse  rose  as  though  impelled  by  the  same  mechan- 
ism. As  if  this  was  not  enough,  every  second  man  was  dis- 
mounted and  put  on  double  with  a  comrade,  not  with  his 
breast  to  his  comrade's  back,  but  back  to  back,  and  then 
in  line  the  odd  cavalcade  charged  the  hurdles,  and  took 
them  every  one.  It  was  not  an  individual  bucketing  of 
one  horse  after  another,  but  all  in  line  and  all  together. 
After  this  what  could  there  be  more  to  test  the  "  glue  " 
in  these  troopers'  seats?  There  was  more,  however,  and 
in  this  wise :  The  saddles  were  put  on,  but  without  any 
girths,  and  all  the  movements  were  gone  through  with 
again,  ending  up  with  a  charge  down  the  hall,  and  bring- 
ing up  against  the  wall  of  the  spectators'  stand  at  a  sharp 
"halt,"  which  would  have  unseated  a  monkey  from  a 
trick-mule. 

The  horses  were  all  thrown  by  pulling  their  heads 
about,  and  one  cavalryman  amused  himself  by  jumping 
over  his  prostrate  mount.  They  rode  "  at  will,"  and  stood 
upon  their  knees  on  their  horses'  backs.  One  big  animal 
resented  carrying  double,  and  did  something  which  in 
Texas  would  be  called  "  pitching,"  but  it  was  scarcely  a 
genuine  sample,  since  the  grinning  soldiers  made  little 
of  it. 

The  troop  of  the  Ninth  executed  a  "left  backward 
turn  "  with  beautiful  precision,  and  this  difficult  under- 
taking will  serve  to  give  one  an  idea  of  the  training  of 
the  mounts. 

Gymnastics  of  all  sorts  were  indulged  in,  even  to  the 


THROWING   A    HORSE 


extent  of  turning  summersaults  over  four  horses  from  a 
spring-board.  A  citizen  near  me,  whose  mind  had  proba- 
bly wandered  back  to  Barnum  and  Bailey,  said : 

"But  what's  this  got  to  do  with  soldiers;  is  it  not 
highly  flavored  with  circus  ?" 

I  could  offer  no  excuse  except  the  tradition  that  caval- 
rymen are  supposed  to  ride  well.  All  the  men  were 
young  and  in  first-rate  physical  fix,  and  seemed  to  enjoy 


200  PONY    TRACKS 

the  thing — all  except  one  old  first  sergeant,  who  had  been 
time-expired  these  half-dozen  times,  whose  skin  was  so 
full  of  bullet-holes  that  it  wouldn't  hold  blood,  and  who 
had  entered  this  new  regime  with  many  protests  : 

"  O'me  nau  circus  ape ;  I  can't  be  leppin'  around  afther 
the  likes  av  thim  !"  whereat  the  powers  arranged  it  so 
that  the  old  veteran  got  a  job  looking  after  plug  tobacco, 
tomato-cans,  tinned  beef,  and  other  ''commissaries,"  upon 
which  he  viewed  the  situation  more  cheerfully. 

The  drill  was  tremendously  entertaining  to  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  in  the  gallery,  and  they  clapped  their 
hands  and  went  bustling  into  their  traps  and  off  down 
the  road  to  the  general's  house,  where  Madam  the  Gen- 
eral gave  a  breakfast,  and  the  women  no  doubt  asked  the 
second  lieutenants  deliciously  foolish  questions  about 
their  art.  The  gentlemen,  some  of  whom  are  Congress- 
men and  other  exalted  governmental  functionaries,  felt 
proud  of  the  cavalry,  and  went  home  with  a  determina- 
tion to  combat  any  one  hostile  to  cavalry  legislation,  if  a 
bold  front  and  firm  purpose  could  stay  the  desecrating  hand. 

But  all  this  work  is  primary  and  elementary.  The  sec- 
ond degree  is  administered  in  field-work,  comprising  ex- 
perimental marches,  and  those  who  know  General  Henry 
by  reputation  will  not  forget  his  hundred-mile  march  with 
the  Ninth  Cavalry  at  Pine  Ridge,  and  those  who  know 
him  personally  will  become  acquainted  with  his  theory 
that  a  cavalry  command  in  good  condition,  with  proper 
feeds,  should  make  fifty  miles  a  day,  with  a  maximum  on 
the  road  of  ten  hours  a  day,  moving  at  the  rate  of  five 
miles  an  hour  in  cavalry  halts,  the  gaits  being  walk,  trot, 
and  leading,  with  a  day's  rest  each  week,  to  be  continued 
indefinitely.  And  knowing  all  this,  they  will  be  sure  that 
the  model  squadron  wears  out  a  good  many  horseshoes  in 
a  season. 


A    MODEL    SQUADRON  203 

The  "  Cossack  outposts  "  are  another  feature  much  in- 
sisted on,  and,  strange  to  say,  this  arrangement  was  first 
invented  in  America,  despite  its  name  (see  Wagner's  Out- 
posts), and  is  an  improvement  on  picket  posts  in  a  ratio  of 
240  to  324.  Another  movement  is  the  "  form  square," 
which  is  an  adaptation  of  the  "  Indian  circle,"  it  being  a 
movement  from  a  centre  to  a  circle,  and  useful  when 
escorting  wagons  or  when  surprised.  The  non-commis- 
sioned officers  are  sent  on  reconnoissance,  on  patrols,  and 
are  required  to  make  maps,  which  are  submitted  to  an  in- 
spector. 

Another  scheme  which  I  have  never  seen  was  the  link- 
ing of  a  troop  of  horses,  formed  in  a  circle,  to  one  another, 
by  hooking  the  regular  cavalry  links  from  one  horse's 
bridle  to  the  next  one's  halter  ring,  and  then  leaving  them 
in  charge  of  one  man.  I  also  saw  the  new  cavalry  bit  for 
the  first  time.  It  is  commended  by  all  who  use  it,  and  I 
saw  no  horses  boring  on  it  or  in  the  least  uppish  about 
going  against  it,  and  I  never  remember  a  horse  who 
would  not  do  either  the  one  or  the  other  to  the  old  trap 
which  was  formerly  worn. 

Two  other  curious  movements  indulged  in  by  this 
squadron  are  the  firing  over  horses  while  they  are  lying 
down;  and,  riding  double  —  the  man  faced  to  the  rear 
draws  his  pistol,  and  while  moving  to  the  rear  keeps 
shooting.  It  might  be  useful  during  a  slow  retreat,  and 
could  be  done  with  the  carbine  equally  well. 

This  whole  enterprise  at  Fort  Meyer  is  vastly  encour- 
aging. As  one  officer  said,  "  We  take  no  credit  for  it, 
since  others  could  do  the  same  if  they  had  riding-halls 
and  cavalry  officers  in  command."  But  there  are  cavalry 
officers  and  there  are  cavalry  officers,  and  it  is  not  every 
day  one  is  born.  For  thirty-five  years  has  the  old  general 
sat  in   a   McClellan   saddle,  and   the  tremendous   enthu- 


204  PONY   TRACKS 

siasm  of  newly  joined  "  sub "  still  remains.  The  very 
thought  of  a  wagon  arouses  his  indignation,  and  every 
day  the  mules  are  brought  into  the  riding -hall,  and  the 
men  initiated  into  the  intricacies  of  the  "  diamond  hitch." 
It  takes  a  past-master  to  pack  a  mule  in  twenty-two  sec- 
onds, however,  and  I  saw  that  feat  accomplished  in  Gen- 
eral Henry's  command. 

It  is  a  grand  thing  for  the  young  men  to  have  this  prac- 
tical training  by  these  old  veterans  of  the  civil  war  and 
the  alkali  plains  before  they  go  on  the  retired  list.  It  is 
well  for  a  young  man  to  know  enough  not  to  unsaddle  a 
sweating  troop  of  horses  in  a  broiling  sun,  and  to  learn 
that  it  makes  sore  backs ;  and  it  is  quite  important  if  men 
can  cook  rations,  and  not  go  up  to  the  sky-line  of  a  hill 
when  scouting,  and  rival  the  statue  of  "  Liberty  Enlight- 
ening the  World,"  when  it  is  clearly  their  business  to 
throw  what  light  they  have  behind  them  and  not  before. 
It  takes  experience  to  put  the  sole  of  a  boot  back  on  the 
upper,  when  it  has  fetched  loose,  with  four  horseshoe 
nails,  and  it  is  not  every  man  that  knows  that  the  place  to 
intrench  is  on  the  edge  of  a  cut  bank,  near  water,  if  one 
expects  ever  to  get  out  of  a  round-up.  No  one  can  figure 
that  a  recruit  will  know  how  many  people  passed  over 
the  road  before  him,  or  which  way  they  were  going,  and 
it  takes  a  long  head  and  good  nerves  not  to  pull  a  trigger 
unless  the  sight  is  dark  on  the  object  when  the  fight  may 
last  all  day  and  probably  all  night  ;  but  all  these  things 
are  not  taught  in  school.  If  a  horse  under  him  is  weak- 
ening on  a  long  march  in  an  enemy's  country,  it  is  an 
ignorant  fool  who  uses  a  spur  instead  of  good  sense. 
That's  the  time  to  unload  a  few  dollars'  worth  of  govern- 
ment property.  But  who  can  understand  the  value  of  a 
rubber  blanket,  fifty  rounds  of  ammunition,  and  a  pocket 
full  of  grub,  with  a  feed  of  grain  in  the  bag,  but  one  who 


A   MODEL   SQUADRON  205 

has  tried  it  ?  There  are  lots  of  dead  soldiers  who  would 
have  learned  these  lessons  if  they  had  been  older.  In 
my  opinion,  the  tremendous  box  of  tricks  which  Uncle 
Sam's  horses  are  supposed  to  carry  has  put  more  men 
afoot  than  will  ever  be  admitted ;  but  at  least  the  old 
boot  has  gone,  though  there  is  yet  room  for  an  intelligent 
hand  with  a  jack-plane  to  shave  off  that  cavalry  pack.  I 
am  inclined  to  take  what  every  one  tells  me  is  a  "  cranky  " 
view  on  this  subject,  but  let  it  stand  until  the  next  hard 
campaign,  and  I  hope  to  be  able  to  be  more  lucid. 
Horses  are  horses,  and  horses  are  not  made  of  wood,  iron, 
or  by  rule  of  thumb. 

To  revert  to  Fort  Meyer :  it  is  altogether  refreshing  ; 
it  is  worth  any  one's  while  to  go  there  and  see  four  troops 
of  cavalry  which  cannot  be  beaten,  and  it  is  positively 
exhilarating  to  meet  their  creator,  a  thoroughly  typical 
United  States  cavalry  officer,  and  I'm  bound  to  say  his 
successor  in  command  has  had  a  hard  pace  set  for  him. 


THE  AFFAIR  OF  THE  — TH  OF  JULY 

The  following  is  a  letter  from  a  young  military  aide-de- 
camp who  was  in  position  to  see  a  great  deal  of  the  great 
riots  in  Chicago. 

Chicago,  July  —  18 — 

My  dear  Friend, — In  your  last  you  ask  me  to  give 
you  my  experiences  in  the  affair  of  the  other  day  here  in 
Chicago,  and  although  I  played'but  a  small  part,  yet  I  do 
not  mind  adding  my  little  quota  to  the  volumes  of  matter 
already  written  on  the  subject.  To  begin  with,  we  at 
headquarters  had  known  for  some  time  that  the  turbulent 
elements  were  organizing  an  opposition  to  Federal  author- 
ity, and  indeed  after  the  demoralization  of  the  police 
power  in  the  affairs  of  Monday  and  Tuesday,  the  general 
issued  his  proclamation  putting  the  city  under  martial  law. 
The  people  were  ordered  to  keep  within  their  own  doors,, 
under  penalty  of  shooting  or  drum-head  court-martial, 
after  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  it  was  also  ex- 
plained that  any  domicile  harboring  an  active  enemy  was 
to  be  reduced  by  the  sharpest  means  at  command.  The 
reinforcements  arrived  on  Tuesday,  and  militia  and  police 
were  embodied  in  our  command.  I  had  been  out  on  a 
patrol  with  a  troop  of  the  Third  Cavalry  late  in  the  after- 
noon, and  I  reported  to  the  general  that  there  was  an 
ominous  lull  in  the  city,  and  that  I  feared  the  enemy  were 
to  take  some  active  measures.  We  had  tried,  unsuccess- 
fully, to  locate  the  rifles  looted  from  the  gun-stores,  and 


THE   AFFAIR   OF   THE   — TH   OF   JULY  207 

also  to  find  anything  like  a  rendezvous  of  insurgents. 
The  better  class  of  people  had  nearly  all  left  the  city,  and 
what  remained  were  guarding  their  business  property. 
Chicago  streets,  usually  so  teeming  with  human  life,  were 
almost  deserted.  No  smoke  came  from  the  big  chimneys, 
and  the  shops  were  shuttered  and  boarded  up.  A  great 
many  honest  people  of  small  means  were  much  put  to  it 
to  obtain  food,  and  I  cannot  but  tell  you  how  I  saw  some 
of  the  troopers  divide  their  rations  with  the  citizens.  At 
the  time  we  had  no  intimation  of  the  serious  turn  affairs 
would  take  on,  but  the  remark  of  the  general's,  that 
"  every  soldier  will  die  right  in  his  tracks,"  had  gone  the 
rounds  of  the  camps,  and  nerved  the  men  to  face  the 
music.  I  was  eating  my  dinner  in  the  Chicago  Club  when 
I  thought  I  heard  rifle-shots.  This  was  about  nine  o'clock, 
and  the  moon  was  shining  on  the  Lake  Front,  although 
the  side  streets  were  dark,  since  the  lights  were  out  all 
over  the  city.  In  a  minute  more  a  squad  of  cavalry 
swept  up  the  street  at  full  gallop.  They  were  heading 
for  the  general's  tent,  and  I  grabbed  my  cap  and  ran 
down-stairs  three  steps  at  a  time.  As  I  made  my  way 
along  Michigan  Avenue  T  could  hear  carbine-shots  over 
in  the  city,  and  shortly  all  the  bugles  giving  "The  As- 
sembly." 

I  got  to  headquarters,  and  met  old  Hewer  of  the 
Seventh,  and  it  was  his  troops  which  had  come  in  ;  he 
told  me  they  were  then  standing  off  a  mob,  which  was  re- 
turning the  fire  down  in  the  city. 

I  got  an  order  from  the  general  to  deliver  to  the  lower 
section  of  the  camp,  and  getting  on  my  "  wheel  "  (which 
is  better  for  this  work  than  a  horse),  I  pulled  out.  I  de- 
livered my  order  to  Colonel  Loftowne,  and  then  waited  to 
observe  things,  as  I  was  to  report  back  to  headquarters. 
Rawball's  battery  went  into  "  action  front,"  two  sections 


208  PONY   TRACKS 

to  a  street.  They  were  loaded,  and  then  down  on  the 
next  corner  came  the  order  through  the  still  night  to  fire. 
A  terrific  flash  illuminated  the  black  square,  and  then  with 
a  howl  down  the  long  street  went  the  2f--inch,  and  far 
down  in  the  darkness  I  could  see  her  explode ;  then  all 
was  silent.  The  signal-rockets  were  going  from  the  top 
of  the  Auditorium,  and  I  saw  the  answering  upward  sweep 
of  the  balls  of  fire  as  they  were  replied  to  farther  down 
the  street.  We  were  on  the  extreme  right,  which  was 
below  the  Art  Building,  and  were  ordered  to  move  for  an 
attack  on  the  streets  of  the  city  en  echelon.  The  guns 
limbered  up,  and,  escorted  by  two  companies  of  infantry, 
we  passed  into  the  dim  light.  At  the  corner  of  Wabash 
Avenue  we  halted.  < 

Four  or  five  blocks  down  we  could  both  hear  and  see 
rifle-firing,  evidently  directed  on  our  camp,  and  also  a 
great  crowd.  At  this  juncture  we  heard  a  most  awful 
explosion,  dull  and  not  like  a  rifle-canon.  "  Dynamite !" 
we  all  exclaimed  in  a  breath. 

"  Cut  the  fuse  to  zero  !  Fire !"  And  with  a  terrific 
crash  the  missile  sped  on  its  way.  "  I  think  that  street 
will  be  clear  for  a  spell,"  drawled  the  captain,  in  his  deli- 
cious old  Georgia  manner,  as  he  got  his  guns  in  motion. 
We  could  hear  the  occassional  boom  of  a  3-inch  and  the 
loud  grinding  of  the  Gatlings,  and  we  knew  it  was  en- 
filading our  fire.  The  rifle-fire  was  silenced  down  the  city, 
and  the  mob,  as  we  judged  by  the  noise,  was  running 
away.  Over  in  the  direction  of  the  post-office  we  then 
heard  rifle-shots. 

"  That's  that  outpost  of  the  Twenty-seventh  guarding 
the  building/'  we  said  to  each  other.  It  fairly  crackled 
now — "  giving  'em  hot  stuff." 

"  Halt !"  came  the  command,  and  the  men  stopped. 
"  We  will  wait  here  for  orders." 


THE    AFFAIR   OF   THE   — TH    OF   JULY  209 

"  What  do  you  suppose  that  report  was  ?"  we  asked 
each  other  as  we  stood  on  the  curbing. 

"  It  must  have  been  dynamite.  I  know  the  sound  of 
this  ordnance  too  well  to  be  mistaken,"  commented  the 
captain  of  artillery.  "  What's  that?  Hark!"  as  a  clatter 
sounded  on  the  pavement  in  our  rear.  "  It's  a  horse  com- 
ing at  full  speed.  Spread  out,  men,  and  stop  him."  And, 
sure  enough,  a  frightened  cavalry  horse  came  charging 
into  the  midst  of  the  infantry,  and  was  only  stopped  after 
he  had  knocked  down  two  men. 

"  He  only  has  a  halter  on  ;  he's  got  away  from  the 
picket  line;  here,  boys — here  comes  another."  This  one 
in  turn  was  stopped,  and  two  more  which  followed  di- 
rectly. Detailed  men  were  sent  back  with  the  horses, 
while  I  went  also  to  make  my  report.  As  I  sped  on 
ahead  I  was  startled  by  a  shot,  and  with  a  sputter  I  heard 
the  bullet  go  to  pieces  at  my  feet.  I  looked  around,  and 
from  the  dark  of  a  window  came  a  flash  and  another 
sputter. 

"  D him,  he  is  firing  at  me,"  I   ejaculated,  and  I 

made  the  pedals  fly.  I  had  no  idea  of  stopping,  but  I 
thought  I  could  remember  the  building;  and  thinks  I, 
"  I  am  not  after  game,  but  whoever  you  are,  I'll  hunt 
you  up,  my  lad." 

At  headquarters  everything  was  bustle. 

"  Some  one  exploded  a  big  dynamite  bomb  right  in  the 
street,  in  front  of  the  Fifth  Infantry  camp,"  said  Captain 
Moss  to  me,  "and  killed  four  men  and  wounded  a  dozen 
more.  Some  of  the  cavalry  horses  broke  away  from  the 
picket  lines  and  stampeded,"  he  went  on. 

The  hospital  tents  were  ablaze  with  light,  and  I  knew 
that  the  surgeons  were  at  their  grewsome  work. 

I  reported  for  orders,  and  shortly  was  given  one  to 
deliver  at  my  old  post.  Back  I  sped,  and  came  near  tum- 
14 


210  PONY    TRACKS 

bling  into  a  big  hole,  which  I  knew  had  been  made  by  the 
dynamite  bomb.  I  will  go  down  another  street  and  cross 
over,  so  as  to  avoid  that  fellow  who  potted  at  me,  I  rea- 
soned ;  but  before  I  turned  off  I  saw  the  two  infantrymen 
and  the  four  old  cavalry  horses  coming  along. 

"  Oh,  lieutenant,"  they  called,  and  I  went  up  to  them. 
"  We  saw  that  fellow  shoot  at  you,  and  McPherson 
held  the  horses  and  I  slipped  down  the  dark  side  of  the 
street  and  located  him.  He  stuck  his  head  out  of  the 
window,  and  I  rested  across  a  door-post  and  let  him  have 
it." 

"  Did  you  hit  him  ?" 

"  Well,  you  kin  bet !  He  came  out  of  that  window  like 
a  turkey  out  of  a  pine-tree.  A  little  slow  at  first,  but  ker- 
flop at  last." 

So  I  took  the  street  of  my  late  enemy,  and  had  a  look 
at  a  dark  object  which  lay  on  the  sidewalk  under  the 
house  I  had  located.  In  response  to  the  order  I  bore,  the 
infantry  advanced  to  develop  any  opposition  which  there 
might  be.  Men  were  thrown  out  in  front,  and  the  heavy 
body  marched  in  rear.  We  had  proceeded  this  way  for 
some  blocks  with  no  sound  but  the  dropping  rifle-fire 
some  quarter  of  a  mile  to  our  left  and  behind  us,  when 
we  began  to  find  men  huddled  in  doorways,  who  were 
promptly  taken  prisoners  and  disarmed,  and  sent  to  the 
rear.  Some  bore  rifles  and  all  had  revolvers,  and  a  hard- 
looking  set  they  were.  The  artillery  fire  had  demoralized 
them,  and  whatever  they  were  to  have  done  they  had 
abandoned  after  the  first  shell  had  gone  shrieking  and 
crashing  down  the  street. 

"  They'll  get  a  drum-head  in  the  morning,  and  it  won't 
sit  ten  minutes,"  mused  an  officer.  "  I  suppose  they  are 
anarchists.  Well,  they  ought  to  like  this ;  this  is  a  sort  of 
anarchy.     It's  the  best  we  have  got  in  our  shop." 


THE   AFFAIR   OF    THE   —  TH    OF    JULY  21 1 

These  words  were  scarcely  spoken  before  a  blinding 
flash  lit  up  the  street  as  lightning  might.  A  tremendous 
report  followed,  and  I  was  knocked  down  right  over  my 
bicyle,  which  I  was  trundling.  I  was  up  in  an  instant, 
and  with  a  ringing  clash  an  object  had  fallen  at  my  feet 
and  struck  my  leg  a  smart  blow,  which  pained  me  consid- 
erably. I  reached  down  and  picked  up  a  Springfield  rifle 
barrel  without  lock  or  stock.  A  dynamite  cartridge  had 
been  exploded  in  our  front.  The  infantry  hesitated  for  a 
moment.  Many  men  had  been  flung  on  their  backs  by 
the  force  of  the  concussion.  "  Forward  !"  was  the  com- 
mand, and  dropping  my  bicycle,  I  followed  the  dark 
figures  of  the  infantry  as  they  made  their  way  down  the 
sides  of  the  streets.  Half  a  block  ahead  was  a  great  hole 
in  the  pavement,  and  the  sidewalk  was  littered  with 
cobble-stones  and  debris  from  the  walls  of  the  surrounding 
buildings.  The  bomb  had  been  exploded  over  the  ad- 
vance-guard, and  had  destroyed  it  utterly.  Which  build- 
ing had  it  come  from  ?  We  stood  in  the  doorways,  and 
held  our  breath  and  waited.  A  stone  dropped  in  the 
street  with  a  crash.  A  tiny  light  appeared  in  one  of  the 
upper  windows  of  a  tall  narrow  office  building.  It  disap- 
peared instantly,  and  all  was  dark.  Two  men  put  their 
heads  out  of  the  window.  "  See-e !"  I  hissed,  as  a  soldier 
drew  up  his  rifle.  All  was  quiet.  The  two  heads  peered 
down    the    street,  and    then    whispered    together,   when 

shortly  we  caught  the  hollow  echo  of  the  words,  "  D 

'em,  they  don't  want  any  more." 

"  Now  run  for  it,"  said  the  captain  in  command,  who 
was  a  big  fellow,  and  we  all  scampered  off  down  the  street 
to  our  main  body.  What  we  had  discovered  was  reported 
to  the  battery  commander.     He  swore  a  great  oath. 

"  Bring  that  gun  up  here  to  this  side  ;  boost  her  on  to 
the  sidewalk.     Come,  get  hold  here,  you  fellows  ;  lend  us 


212  PONY    TRACKS 

a  hand  ;  run  her  along  a  little  ;  train  her  on  that  doorway. 
Now  fire  !*'  And  then,  in  a  high  voice,  "  Captain,  let  your 
men  cover  that  house  with  rifle-fire,  and  detail  some  men 
to  break  into  a  store  and  get  inflammables." 

The  big  gun  went  with  a  deafening  crash,  and  the  door- 
way was  in  slivers.  A  dropping  rifle-fire  rained  into  the 
windows.  Crash  went  the  big  gun  after  a  minute,  but 
the  building  was  dark  and  silent,  as  though  holding  their 
sputtering  toys  in  contempt. 

"  I'm  going  to  burn  that  building.  Send  a  man  to  call 
out  the  fire  department !"  roared  the  old  captain,  who  had 
now  lost  all  his  drawling,  and  was  bellowing  like  a  bull. 
After  a  time  infantrymen  came  along  with  their  arms 
full  of  bottles  and  cans  of  kerosene,  and  I  know  not  what 
else.  They  had  broken  into  a  drug-store,  and  told  the 
proprietor,  who  was  found  there  in  the  darkness  with  his 
three  clerks,  to  give  them  the  most  inflammable  sub- 
stances at  his  command. 

The  squad  of  infantry  formed  on  the  side  of  the  street 
occupied  by  the  ill-fated  house,  and  as  the  big  gun  crashed 
and  the  rifle-fire  redoubled,  they  dashed  down  the  street 
and  swarmed  into  the  building. 

"Keep  up  that  rifle-fire!"  howled  the  senior  officer.  It 
was  bang !  bang!  bang!  for  a  full  minute,  when  a  flash  of 
light  lit  up  the  doorway,  and  with  a  rush  out  came  the 
squad,  and  made  its  way  to  us  on  the  run. 

"  We  have  fired  the  elevator  shaft,"  said  a  young  officer, 
breathing  heavily  with  excitement.  The  doorway  was 
very  light  now,  and  shortly  the  second-story  windows  over 
it  showed  yellow.  Windows  farther  up  the  tall  building 
began  to  redden  and  then  to  glow  brightly.  It  was  ten 
minutes  now  since  the  first  gleam  of  fire,  and  the  rifles  had 
ceased.  The  building  was  now  ablaze.  A  huge  roaring 
was   heard,  and  the  black  smoke  poured   from  the  hall 


THE   AFFAIR   OF    THE   — TH    OF   JULY  213 

windows,  while  the  side  windows  were  yet  dark.  A  harsh 
yelling  came  from  the  window  where  I  had  seen  the  little 
match  struck,  and  the  thick  black  smoke  eddied  around 
and  hid  it  all. 

"  By  sections — forward — trot — march,"  and  with  a  dash 
we  moved  forward  past  the  roaring  furnace  and  down 
into  the  darkness  below. 

"  My  orders  were  to  move  forward,"  muttered  the  old 
captain,  as  he  bit  at  a  plug  of  tobacco. 

It  was  now  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  and  I  could  hear  a 
great  deal  of  small-arm  firing  down  the  city  on  my  left  in 
front,  and  also  the  boom  of  cannon  away  on  the  other  side 
of  town.  Shortly  a  note  was  handed  me  by  an  adjutant, 
and  I  was  to  go  to  a  command  on  a  street  nearly  in  front 
of  headquarters.  I  sped  along,  and  shortly  met  men  by 
twos  and  threes,  wounded  men  going  to  camp,  and  two 

fellows  sitting  on  the  curbing.     "  Where  is  Captain  B 's 

command,  my  men  ?" 

"  Right  on  down  the  street — me  bunkie's  got  it,"  was 
all  I  heard  as  I  shot  along. 

The  rifle-fire  grew,  and  the  crash  of  a  Hotchkiss  came  at 
intervals.  Then  I  made  out  a  small  infantry  reserve,  and 
then  the  guns.  I  found  the  captain,  and  delivered  my 
note. 

"  Wait  by  me,"  said  the  captain,  as  he  went  into  a 
doorway  and  read  the  order  by  scratching  matches  on  his 
pantaloons,  and  the  Hotchkiss  nearly  broke  my  ear-drums. 
"Wait  a  minute  or  so,"  said  the  captain,  as  he  crushed 
the  note  into  his  trousers-pocket. 

I  waited,  and  a  "  kid  "  of  the  reserves,  whom  I  knew, 
greeted  me  and  explained.  "  They  are  in  the  depot,  and 
we  are  going  to  carry  it  by  storm  in  a  minute." 

Again  the  Hotchkiss  went,  and  "  Come  on  !"  rang  the 
order  as  the  men  moved  forward.     It  was  the   captain, 


214  PONY   TRACKS 

and  he  wanted  me  to  "  wait  a  minute,"  so,  thinks  I,  I  will 
wait  near  him;  and  pulling  my  bicycle  into  a  dark  door- 
way, I  waited  along  by  the  captain,  near  the  head  of  the 
procession.  As  we  moved  out  from  the  protection  of  the 
street  the  report  of  a  Hotchkiss  nearly  threw  me  from  my 
pins,  and  then  we  ran  silently  under  a  rather  hot  fire  from 
the  windows  and  doorways.  I  heard  the  balls  strike — a 
dull  slap — and  a  man  stumbled  forward  ahead  of  me  and 
dropped.  I  sprang  over  him,  and  was  soon  out  of  fire, 
and  with  the  little  column  passed  through  the  big  door- 
way under  which  I  had  so  often  passed  with  my  gripsack 
and  on  the  qui  vive  for  a  hansom-cab  driver.  There  was  a 
tremendous  rattle  of  fire,  the  bullets  struck  the  stone- 
work viciously ;  the  hollow  pat  sounded,  and  men  sank 
reeling  and  lay  prone  under  my  feet.  We  piled  in  and 
returned  the  fire.  It  was  all  smoke  now  ;  nothing  dis- 
tinguishable. "  Come  on  !"  came  a  voice  which  inter- 
larded itself  with  the  reports,  and  we  went  on  wildly. 
We  were  now  out  of  the  smoke,  and  then  I  saw,  by  the 
light  of  a  fire,  figures  running.  A  man  fired  in  our  faces. 
He  was  sitting  up  ;  a  bayonet  went  into  him,  and  he  rolled 
over,  clutching  his  breast  with  his  hands.  "  The  house  is 
on  fire '."came  the  cry,  and  the  infantry  continued  to 
discharge  on  the  retreating  figures.  A  great  flash  lighted 
everything,  and  as  my  senses  returned,  it  came  over  me 
"  that  was  a  bomb."  I  passed  my  hand  over  my  eyes. 
The  building  was  on  fire.  I  could  see  men  lying  around 
me  breathing  heavily  and  groaning.  I  got  up  ;  a  voice 
said,  "  Get  these  men  out  of  here  !"  "  Get  these  men  out 
of  here  !"  I  echoed,  as  I  grabbed  a  big  Irish  sergeant,  and 
supporting  him  under  the  arms,  I  strove  forward.  The 
living  soldiers  took  hold  of  the  dead  and  wounded  com- 
rades, and  bore  them  back  through  the  smoke  and  into 
the  street.     The  station  was  now  on  fire,  and  every  one 


WE   WERE   NOW    OUT   OF   THE   SMOKE 


OF  THE 


OF 


THE   AFFAIR    OF    THE   — TH    OF   JULY  217 

was  highly  excited,  for  these  bombs  made  strange  work, 
and  were  very  demoralizing.  They  did  no  particular 
good  to  the  enemy  beyond  that  point,  since  they  did  not 
stop  our  advance,  and  they  also  demoralized  the  enemy 
quite  as  much  as  ourselves.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
further  opposition  to  the  troops.  I  went  back  to  head- 
quarters, got  my  horse,  and  received  permission  to  go  with 
a  detachment  of  cavalry.  We  pulled  out  up  Michigan 
Avenue.  We  were  to  scout  and  make  a  junction  with 
stock-yard  troops  out  to  the  south  of  the  city  or  in  Wash- 
ington Park.  The  moon  was  going  down,  and  there  was 
no  sound  but  the  clattering  of  the  troops  and  the  jingle  of 
the  sabres.  We  passed  a  large  squad  of  police,  with  their 
lanterns,  moving  out  south  to  protect  private  residences 
and  arrest  prowlers.  Ahead  of  us  we  heard  three  re- 
volver-shots, and  galloping  forward,  we  were  hailed  by  a 
voice  from  a  window.  "  They  have  been  trying  to  break 
into  my  house,  catch  them  ;  they  are  running  up  the 
street."  The  road  here  was  very  wide,  with  two  rows  of 
trees  in  the  centre  and  narrow  grass-plots. 

"  Come  on  !"  shouted  the  captain,  and  spurring  up,  we 
moved  forward. 

"  There  they  are,  captain  :  can't  you  see  them  ?"  spoke 
the  old  first  sergeant,  as  he  drove  his  horse  forward  to  the 
captain's  side. 

We  rode  over  the  grass-plot,  and,  sure  enough,  forms  were 
seen  to  run  up  the  steps  of  houses  and  behind  shrubbery. 

"  Dismount  ! — shoot  them  down  !"  came  the  command, 
and  the  men  sprang  forward  with  a  rush.  A  revolver 
flashed,  and  was  followed  by  a  dozen  carbine-balls,  and 
from  the  blackness  of  a  high  front  stoop  rolled  a  figure 
grunting  and  gasping.  Shot  after  shot  rang  through  the 
darkness,  and  the  troopers  routed  the  vermin  from  step 
and  shrubbery,  until  shortly  it  ceased. 


218  PONY    TRACKS 

"  Captain,  here  is  Foltz — he's  been  shot ;  and  Mclner- 
ny — he's  shot  too." 

I  sprang  up  the  steps  of  a  great  stone  mansion  and 
pounded  on  the  door  with  the  butt  of  my  six-shooter.  A 
window  was  raised  and  a  head  peered  out.  "  What  do 
you  want  ?" 

"  We  are  United  States  cavalry,  and  we  have  two 
wounded  men.  Open  your  doors ;  we  want  you  to  put 
them  to  bed,"  and  the  window  went  down  with  a  bang. 
Shortly  the  bolts  were  drawn,  the  door  opened,  and  an  old 
gentleman  with  white  hair  and  carrying  a  lamp  appeared. 

"Certainly;  bring  them  right  in,  captain,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  and  the  two  men  were  carefully  lifted  and 
borne  in  by  their  comrades.  I  helped  to  carry  one  man 
up-stairs,  and  to  take  off  his  great  boots  and  to  strip  him. 

**  Is  there  a  doctor  near  here,  sir?"  I  asked. 

"  Right  across  the  street  ;  will  I  send  my  man  ?" 

"Yes,  and  a-running,  too,"  replied  a  comrade,  who  was 
stanching  the  blood  on  the  man's  chest  with  a  bed-sheet. 

We  laid  the  man  out,  and  I  paused  to  note  the  splen- 
dor of  the  apartment,  and  to  think  it  none  too  good  for  a 
brave  soldier.  The  doctor  came  shortly,  and  I  left  the 
house.  The  troop  was  mounted  and  moved  on.  From  a 
mansion  across  the  street  came  a  shot  and  loud  shouting. 
We  rode  up  and  dismounted.  There  was  a  light  in  the 
front  room  and  the  door  was  open.  The  captain  sprang 
up  the  steps,  followed  by  ten  or  twelve  men.  As  we  en- 
tered we  saw  a  half-dozen  of  the  most  vicious-looking 
wretches  I  have  ever  seen.  They  were  evidently  drunk, 
and  did  not  comprehend  the  import  of  our  presence. 
One  man  raised  a  champagne-bottle  and  threatened  the 
captain.  A  carbine  flashed — the  report  was  almost  deaf- 
ening— and  the  drunken  man  dropped  the  bottle,  threw 
up  his  hand,  turned  half  round,  and  sank  with  a  thud. 


THE   AFFAIR   OF    THE   — TH    OF    JULY  219 

"Take  these  men  out  and  shoot  them,  sergeant."  And 
the  now  thoroughly  terrorized  revellers,  to  the  number  of 
six,  were  dragged,  swearing  and  beseeching,  to  the  pave- 
ment, and  I  heard  shots. 

The  room  we  were  in  was  magnificent,  but  in  the  ut- 
most disorder.  The  floor  was  strewn  with  broken  bottles, 
vases,  and  bric-a-brac. 

A  form  appeared  in  the  door.  It  was  a  woman.  She 
was  speechless  with  terror,  and  her  eyes  stared,  and  her 
hands  were  clutched.  We  removed  our  hats,  and  the 
woman  closed  her  eyes  slowly. 

"  Look  out,  captain,  she's  going  to  faint  !"  I  cried. 

The  captain  slapped  his  hat  on  with  a  crush. 

"  That's  what  she's  going  to  do,"  he  said,  as  he  stood 
like  a  football-rusher  before  the  ball  is  put  in  play. 

"  Grab  her!"  I  shouted  ;  and,  with  a  bound,  the  captain 
made  a  high  tackle  just  as  the  lady  became  limp.  Out  in 
the  hall  I  jumped,  and  yelled, "  Oh,  you  people  up-stairs 
there,  come  down  ;  come  running  ;  the  lady  has  fainted  ; 
we  are  soldiers ;  come  down  ;  come  down  ;  come  down, 
somebody !"  And  from  the  upper  darkness  a  white- 
robed  figure  glided  past  me  into  the  lighted  room. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  she  said,  as  she  swept  up  to  the 
rather  engaging  scene  of  the  beautiful  woman  and  the 
captain,  who  was  "  not  glad,"  judging  from  his  discon- 
certed air ;  and  to  make  a  story  short,  we  left  the  house. 

As  we  mounted  we  could  see  the  darkness  beginning 
to  gray,  and  knew  that  morning  would  come  shortly. 

"  It's  been  a  nasty  night's  work,  but  if  it  once  comes 
daylight  I'll  leave  nothing  of  these  rioters  but  their  horri- 
ble memory,"  mused  the  old  captain. 

"  There  is  a  glow  in  the  sky  off  there — don't  you  see?" 
I  added. 

"  Fire  !     Oh,  I've  expected  that." 


220  PONY   TRACKS 

As  the  light  grayed  I  could  see  the  doors  of  majestic 
residences  open,  windows  broken,  and  debris  trailing  down 
the  steps. 

"  Looted." 

"There  are  people  ahead — trot !"  said  the  captain,  half 
turning  in  his  saddle.  The  bray  of  the  trumpet  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  jingle  of  the  forward  movement. 

The  captain  pulled  off  to  the  side  and  shouted,  "  No 
prisoners,  men — no  prisoners !"  And  the  column  swept 
along. 

We  could  make  out  more  human  forms,  all  running  by 
the  side  of  the  road.  There  were  more  and  more  fugi- 
tives as  we  drew  nearer. 

"  Come  on,"  sang  out  the  first  lieutenant,  as  he  put  his 
horse  into  a  gallop  and  drew  his  six-shooter  ;  and  shortly 
we  were  among  them,  scattering  them  like  chaff  and  firing 
revolver-shots  into  them.  Up  the  side  streets  they  went, 
scampering,  terrorized. 

"  I  guess  they  will  keep  that  gait  for  a  mile,"  said  the 
lieutenant,  as  he  turned  grinning  to  me.  "  That  is  the 
outfit  which  has  been  looting  down  Michigan  Avenue.  I 
wish  the  light  would  come,  and  we'll  give  'em  hot  stuff." 

At  Washington  Park  we  dismounted,  and  shortly  were 
joined  by  B  Troop  from  Hordon's  command.  They  told 
us  they  had  been  fighting  all  night,  and  that  the  stock- 
yards and  many  buildings  were  on  fire.  They  had  en- 
countered opposition,  which  seemed  to  be  armed  and  to 
have  some  organization,  but,  laughing,  he  said,  "  They 
couldn't  stand  the  '  hot  stuff.'  " 

After  this  we  made  the  ride  back.  It  was  now  light, 
and  as  we  rode  slowly,  men  dismounted  at  intervals,  and 
did  some  pretty  work  at  rather  long  ranges  with  the  car- 
bines. The  enemy  would  see  us  coming,  and  start  to  run 
up  side  streets,  and  then,  riding  forward,  we  dismounted 


THE   AFFAIR   OF   THE   — TH    OF   JULY  221 

and  potted  at  them.  I  saw  a  corporal  "  get  a  man  "  who 
was  running  upwards  of  six  blocks  away — it  was  luck,  of 
course.  The  police  were  now  seen  posted  along  at  inter- 
vals, and  were  going  into  houses  to  tell  the  people  of  the 
order  to  remain  in -doors  for  twenty -four  hours  more, 
which  was  the  latest  from  headquarters,  and  I  suppose 
was  intended  to  give  the  police  and  troops  an  opportunity 
to  seek  out  armed  insurgents. 

I  got  back  to  camp,  dismounted,  and,  being  hungry,  be- 
thought me  of  the  Auditorium  for  breakfast.  I  didn't 
think,  after  the  pounding  the  hotel  had  gotten  in  the 
early  evening  previous,  that  they  would  come  out  strong 
on  an  early  breakfast,  but  they  did  fairly  well.  You  re- 
member Ed  Kennedy,  the  popular  clerk  there — well,'  he 
was  shot  and  badly  wounded  while  behind  the  desk,  after 
the  bomb  drew  our  fire.  He  will  get  around  all  right,  I 
am  told. 

I  saw  some  of  the  execution  of  those  hundreds  of  pris- 
oners next  day,  but  I  didn't  care  to  see  much.  They 
piled  them  on  flat-cars  as  though  they  had  been  cord- 
wood,  and  buried  them  out  in  the  country  somewhere. 
Most  of  them  were  hobos,  anarchists,  and  toughs  of  the 
worst  type,  and  I  think  they  "  left  their  country  for  their 
country's  good."  Chicago  is  thoroughly  worked  up  now, 
and  if  they  keep  with  the  present  attention  to  detail, 
they  will  have  a  fine  population  left.  The  good  citizens 
have  a  monster  vigilance  committee,  and  I  am  afraid  will 
do  many  things  which  are  not  entirely  just,  but  it  is  the 
reaction  from  lawlessness,  and  cannot  be  helped.  They 
have  been  terribly  exasperated  by  the  rioting  and  license 
of  the  past.  Of  course,  my  dear  friend,  all  this  never 
really  happened,  but  it  all  might  very  easily  have  hap- 
pened if  the  mob  had  continued  to  monkey  with  the 
military  buzz-saw.  Yours  faithfully,  JACK. 


THE  COLONEL    OF    THE    FIRST   CYCLE 
INFANTRY 

"  You  certainly  are  a  tough  outfit,  colonel — you  and 
your  night-hawks  of  the  First  Bikes — and  I  am  not  sure 
you  could  not  have  us  cavalrymen  going  to  bed  with  our 
boots  on,  if  we  were  on  the  other  side,"  said  Major 
Ladigo,  as  he  bit  at  the  end  of  a^  fresh  cigar. 

"  Yes — bless  me — Pedal's  outfit  might  come  into  camp 
on  top  of  yours,  Ladigo,  and  where  would  my  guns  be 
then  ?  I  can't  have  my  gunners  sitting  on  their  trails  all 
day  and  all  night  too,"  sighed  the  big  gunner,  from  the 
other  end  of  the  tent. 

"  It  was  good  work,"  continued  the  old  brigadier — 
"  here,  boy,  pass  those  glasses — and  I  have  always  thought 
well  of  the  possibilities  of  that  machine  in  a  certain  sort 
of  military  operations.  I  don't  think  you  can  chase 
Apaches  with  it — in  fact,  the  only  way  to  chase  Apaches 
is  to  agree  to  pay  about  $500  a  head  for  them  ;  and,  also, 
I  don't  think,  Colonel  Pedal — with  all  due  respect  for  your 
enthusiasm — that  you  could  ever  become  of  all-absorbing 
interest  in  great  operations  between  organized  armies,  but 
I  do  not  want  to  commit  myself  since  you  seem  to  ac- 
complish such  feats  in  these  days.  If  we  had  not  had  a 
really  progressive  man  at  the  head  of  the  army  you  would 
not  have  had  this  opportunity ;  but  now,  Pedal,  all  these 
fellows  want  to  hear  about  your  outfit,  and  especially  how 
you   conducted   that  affair  at   North   Colville — they  all 


THE    COLONEL   OF   THE    FIRST   CYCLE   INFANTRY    223 

want  to  know — go  ahead  now — we  have  plenty  of  time  to 
listen,"  and  Colonel  Pedal  of  the  First  Bikes  twirled  his 
forage  cap  in  his  two  hands  and  grinned  pleasantly. 

"  Well — it  was  simple  enough,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  yes — it's  simple  now,  but  how  did  you  get  at  it  ?" 
was  the  remark  of  encouragement  from  somewhere. 

"  Oh,  well,  you  know,  when  I  had  organized  and  drilled 
this  regiment,  the  people  up  at  headquarters  used  me  in  a 
fussy  way  as  orderlies,  messengers,  and  in  light  outpost 
work,  until  my  outfit  was  scattered  all  over  this  country, 
and  that  was  not  my  idea  at  all.  I  knew  by  long  experi- 
ment that  bicycles  were  perfectly  mobile  in  any  country 
not  strictly  mountainous,  and  my  idea  was  that  I  could 
fight  my  outfit  in  a  new  way ;  but  fight  it,  that  was  my 
idea — and  march  it,  too.  I  wanted  a  few  holes  in  that 
flag,  and  so  I  used  to  go  up  and  labor  with  the  general.  I 
pleaded  and  begged  to  be  turned  loose.  So  one  after- 
noon the  general  sent  for  me,  and  I  went  to  headquarters. 

"  He  said  that  a  big  band  of  insurgents  were  gathering 
and  organizing  up  at  North  Colville,  and  that  he  wanted 
them  destroyed  or  dispersed,  and  asked  me  if  I  could  do 
it  without  asking  for  supports.  I  knew  the  old  man  had 
all  he  could  do  to  open  the  communications  to  the  west, 
and  that  he  was  going  to  give  the  bikes  a  try  to  prove 
what  they  were  good  for,  so  I  said  '  Yes,  sir,'  right  away, 
though  I  did  not  know  the  situation  thoroughly;  but  I 
wanted  a  job  of  that  sort,  and  I  was  in  for  it.  So  he  gave 
me  orders  to  that  effect,  and  after  some  inquiries  I  left  him. 
Through  spies  he  knew  of  this  condition,  and  that  all 
the  communications  were  cut  except  the  marine  cable, 
which  he  laid  in  the  bed  of  the  Kaween  River  to  North- 
port,  and  that  was  thirty  miles  from  North  Colville.  I 
knew  that  all  those  upper  counties  were  in  a  state  of  in- 
surgency, and  my  orders  were  to  destroy  the  rendezvous 


224  PONY   TRACKS 

at  North  Colville  and  to  then  retreat ;  so  my  chief  concern 
was  to  get  through  the  country  without  being  stopped  or 
engaged  seriously  by  intervening  bodies  of  the  enemy 
which  I  might  encounter,  and  says  I  to  myself,  says  I, 
1  Old  man,  show  'em  what  bikes  are  good  for.'  Pardon 
me  if  I  become  enthusiastic.  I  started  down  to  my  com- 
mand, fell  in  my  men,  with  two  days'  rations  and  one 
hundred  and  fifty  rounds.  I  made  my  inspection,  for,  of 
course,  you  know,  bike  soldiers  have  a  very  complicated 
equipment ;  what  with  bombs,  telegraphic  apparatus,  tools, 
and  the  extra  parts  of  wheels,  one  must  look  well  to  his  in- 
spection. They  have  the  Rice  equipment — combined  car- 
tridge-belts and  garment — which  enables  them  to  carry  al- 
most anything  on  the  shoulder-belt.  At  five  o'clock  we 
pulled  out,  and  at  dark  found  ourselves  at  our  extreme  out- 
posts, as  I  had  calculated.  I  did  not  want  the  enemy  to  see 
me,  as  I  was  afraid  of  the  telegraph,  but  as  I  proceeded  I 
tapped  the  wires  and  cut  them  again  and  again.  In  fact, 
I  cut  wires  all  night,  for  fear  that  they  might  not  have 
been  destroyed,  or  that  they  might  have  been  repaired. 
I  ran  smoothly  through  little  hamlets,  and  knew  that  I 
could  not  be  overtaken.  I  made  a  slight  detour  around 
villages  of  any  size,  such  as  Wooddale,  Rockville,  and 
Freeport,  for  fear  that  the  insurgents  might  be  in  force 
enough  to  detain  me.  Back  of  Wellsville  I  got  awfully 
tangled  up  in  a  woods,  and,  in  short,  was  lost ;  but  I 
jumped  an  old  cit.  out  of  his  cosey  bed,  put  a  .45  on  the 
cabin  of  his  intellect,  a  flash-lantern  in  his  two  eyes,  and 
he  looked  sufficiently  honest  and  intelligent  to  show  us 
the  road,  which  he  did,  and  we  were  not  detained  long. 

"  I  felt  fear  of  Emmittstowne,  as  I  had  information  that 
the  insurgents  were  in  force  there.  We  picked  up  a  man 
on  the  road  who  seemed  to  be  one  of  our  sympathizers, 
and  he  informed  us  that  there  were  pickets  all  along  the 


THE   COLONEL   OF  THE   FIRST   CYCLE   INFANTRY     227 

road  which  we  were  travelling,  and  also  mounted  patrols. 
He  said  that  there  were  a  terrible  lot  of  insurgents  in  Em- 
mittstowne,  but  mostly  drunk. 

"  Captain  Bidewell,  who  was  in  command  of  the  advance, 
did  a  rather  clever  piece  of  work  here.  He  suspected 
that  he  would  find  a  picket  at  a  certain  place,  and  sent  a 
dismounted  squad  on  either  side  of  the  road,  which  was 
bounded  by  meadow  land  with  stone -walls,  brush,  and 
trees  on  either  side,  and  he  himself  walked  down  the  road 
with  two  men.  They  talked  loudly,  as  though  drunk,  and 
sure  enough,  were  shortly  held  up  by  the  picket.  They 
surrendered  and  expostulated  in  a  loud  voice,  and  offered 
their  captors  a  bottle  of  whiskey.  The  advance  closed  in 
on  them  and  even  got  in  their  rear,  and,  of  course,  held  up 
the  picket  without  a  shot.  A  six-shooter  argument  used 
on  these  people  shortly  disclosed  the  conditions,  and  we 
advanced." 

"  Say,  colonel,  I  know  that  Bidewell ;  he  is  organizing  a 
bike  regiment  out  West  now — met  him  as  I  came  through," 
interpolated  a  medical  major. 

"Yes — nice  fellow — held  the  ten-mile  record  for  two 
years  before  this  trouble,"  replied  Pedal ;  "  but,  as  I  was 
saying — 

"  Here  is  How  !  gentlemen ! 

"Well,  to  continue  —  to  show  you  a  curious  phase  of 
bicycling — my  advance  ran  a  picket  farther  along  the  road 
and  were  fired  on,  but,  bless  me,  they  had  gone  through  so 
quickly  and  silently  that  they  were  not  hurt,  and  the  ser- 
geant, who  was  very  wise,  dismounted  and  blew  his  whis- 
tle for  us  to  advance.  Bidewell  dismounted  and  immedi- 
ately advanced,  and  the  picket,  hearing  his  men  smashing 
brush,  retreated,  and  the  sergeant  turned  a  pistol  loose  in 
their  faces  and  bellowed  for  them  to  go  out  in  the  road, 
throw  up  their  hands,  and  surrender,  which  they  did.    You 


228  PONY    TRACKS 

see,  Colonel  Ladigo,  it  is  very  hard  to  estimate  bike 
forces  in  the  night,  they  go  so  silently — they  simply  flit ; 
and  when  you  first  notice  them  you  wonder  how  many 
have  gone  before.  A  sleepy  picket  is  waked  up  by  a  lot 
of  bellowing  and  shots  and  smashing  of  brush,  and  he 
doesn't  know  anything,  especially  if  the  row  is  half  in  his 
rear.  Well,  the  shooting  must  have  aroused  the  village 
of  Emmittstowne,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  run  right 
into  the  town.  The  moon  was  rising,  and  we  could  see  fairly 
well ;  but  first  I  tried  a  little  ruse  with  the  captured  pick- 
et. We  advanced  down  the  road  a  piece,  and  the  men  en- 
sconced themselves  in  the  brush,  while  one  of  the  captured 
men  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  We  heard  quite  a 
party  coming  up  the  road  rapidly,  and  the  picket  called 
out  to  them  that  it  was  nothing — that  they  had  fired  at 
some  shadows,  and  that  they  might  go  back.  Two  men 
actually  advanced  to  him,  but  he  insisted  that  all  was 
right,  and  that  they  might  return  ;  in  fact,  he  protested 
too  much,  since  he  knew  that  he  was  lying  for  his  life, 
and  that  the  date  of  his  demise  was  fixed  at  the  instant 
he  told  the  truth.  We  gave  the  town  half  an  hour  to 
settle  down,  and  then  started  on  a  down  grade — coasting 
silently.  All  was  still.  There  were  lights  in  a  few  sa- 
loons, and  a  half-dozen  men,  who  were  immediately  held 
up  and  disarmed.  There  was  evidence  of  a  great  many 
people  in  the  village,  since  wagons  and  horses  stood  about, 
and  tents  and  huts  were  everywhere  except  on  the  main 
street.  I  stopped  in  front  of  the  hotel,  and,  do  you 
know,  my  column  got  three-quarters  of  the  way  through 
the  town  before  we  were  discovered.  My  column  is  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  long,  you  must  remember,  and  that 
was  very  fortunate.  Some  one  fired  a  shot  from  a  dark- 
ened window  of  the  hotel,  and  I  ordered  my  men  to  use 
their  revolvers.     A  man  can  shoot  a  revolver  with  great 


THE   COLONEL   OF    THE    FIRST   CYCLE   INFANTRY     229 

accuracy  from  a  wheel,  as  it  glides  so  smoothly.  Well, 
there  was  a  deuce  of  a  popping,  and  it  must  have  fairly 
riddled  the  town.  The  fire  was  shortly  returned,  but  in  a 
desultory  way  which  did  not  seem  to  do  any  damage, 
and  shortly  the  tail  of  the  column  passed  down  the  street. 
I  had  set  the  hotel  on  fire  before  we  left,  and  I  really  do 
not  think  that  those  fellows  know  what  really  happened 
there  yet.  I  immediately  cut  the  telegraph  line,  and  now 
had  nothing  to  interfere  with  my  march  to  North  Colville. 
I  had  two  bikes  ruined  by  shots,  and  abandoned  the  rid- 
ers; but  they  made  their  way  to  our  lines  later.  As  we 
proceeded  the  country  grew  more  flat,  and  we  made  the 
pedals  spin  ;  at  times  we  overtook  night  prowlers — tramps, 
for  the  most  part — and  one  rather  large  party  of  drunken 
insurgents,  all  of  whom  we  disarmed  and  left  tied  to  trees 
and  fences  along  the  road.  Do  you  know,  Ladigo,  that 
one  cannot  hear  my  whole  regiment  on  a  road  until  it  is 
right  on  top  of  you.  I  have  frequently  seen  men  ride  a 
bicycle  right  up  beside  a  man,  who  never  heard  a  word 
until  ordered  to  throw  up  his  hands." 

"  Oh  yes,  Pedal,  I'd  like  to  catch  your  outfit  at  the 
foot  of  a  long  hill ;  I  would  fire  yellow-legs  into  you  in  a 
way  you  would  despise,"  interpolated  the  impetuous  cav- 
alryman, as  he  blew  smoke  at  the  ridge-pole  and  slapped 
his  one  leg  over  the  other  in  a  satisfied  way. 

"  Yes,  you  might,  Ladigo ;  but  I'm  going  to  spend  my 
life  trying  not  to  let  you  catch  me  at  the  foot  of  a  long 
hill,  and  if  you  do,  you  will  find  about  one  hundred  bicy- 
cles piled  up  in  the  road,  and  it  makes  bad  travelling  for 
horses,  especially  with  unshaken  infantry  pointing  at  you 
from  behind.  Well,  in  this  case,  Ladigo,  I  did  not  have 
any  of  your  enterprising  yellow-legs  to  bother  me.  As  I 
was  saying,  we  went  along  swimmingly  until  we  struck 
Cat-tail  Creek,  and  found  the  bridge  burned.     It  was  rath- 


230  PONY   TRACKS 

er  chilly,  but  I  knew  there  was  no  help  for  it,  so  we  got 
out  our  air-cushions  and  did  our  little  swimming  drill  right 
there." 

"What  are  your  air-cushions?"  inquired  the  medical 
officer  with  the  long  pipe. 

"  They  are  made  of  rubber,  and  blow  up,  and  will  sustain 
five  equipments,  and  weigh  fourteen  pounds.  Every  five 
men  have  one,"  explained  Pedal. 

"  Oh,  I  see — a  quaint  scheme  !" 

"  Yes ;  bikes  are  perfectly  mobile,"  continued  Pedal, 
with  satisfaction.  "  As  I  was  saying— oh  yes,  we  got  over 
the  river  all  right,  but — "  and  here  he  glanced  appre- 
hensively at  Ladigo — "  but  I  forgot  to  mention  that  we 
lost  fifteen  bicycles  in  the  passage." 

"  Ha — ha  !  oh  yes — there  are  your  dismounted  men," 
and  Colonel  Ladigo  beamed. 

"  I  think  horses  would  have  stuck  in  the  mud  of  Cat- 
tail Creek,  Ladigo;  fact  is,  horses  are  not  perfectly  mobile. 
I  also  neglected  to  mention  that  the  bicycles  were  all 
fished  up  and  joined  us  later.  We  halted  on  a  hill  off  the 
road  an  hour  before  gray  dawn,  to  wait  for  the  command 
to  close  up  and  to  eat.  There  are  always  bikes  which 
break  down,  and  it  takes  a  little  time  to  repair  them ;  and 
men  will  fall  and  injure  themselves  more  or  less.  But 
within  an  hour  I  had  my  command  all  up  except  five  men, 
having  marched  nearly  seventy  miles  in  eleven  hours,  had 
one  engagement,  crossed  a  river.  And  now,  Colonel  Ladi- 
go, was  that  not  good  work  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  Pedal,  quite  good — quite  good  ;  could  do  it 
myself,  though,"  and  the  soul  of  a  cavalryman  was  bound 
to  assert  itself. 

"  Undoubtedly  you  could,  but  not  next  day."  And  Pedal 
lit  a  cigar,  conscious  that  he  had  Ladigo  downed,  but  not 
finally  suppressed. 


THE   COLONEL   OF    THE    FIRST   CYCLE   INFANTRY     233 

"  My  men  down  the  road  took  in  a  cavalry  patrol  with- 
out a  shot — actually  took  in  a  cavalry — " 

"  Hump — hump  !"  snorted  Ladigo  ;  "  cavalry  forsooth — 
a  lot  of  d jays  on  plough-teams  ;  cavalry,  sir — " 

"  Here — here,  Ladigo,  come  down,"  expostulated  the 
assembled  officers,  and  Ladigo  relapsed. 

"  Well,  after  a  reconnoissance  and  information  from  the 
patrol,  I  found  that  there  were  over  five  thousand  men 
rendezvoused  there,  partly  organized,  and  armed  with  all 
sorts  of  guns.  Old  Middle  was  in  command — you  remem- 
ber Middle,  formerly  of  the  Twenty -seventh  Infantry,, 
cashiered  at  Fort  Verde  in  '82." 

He  was  known  to  the  men  present,  and  a  few  sniffs  and 
the  remark  that  "he  was  bad  medicine"  was  all  that  greet- 
ed the  memory  of  Middle. 

"  From  the  patrol  I  found  where  their  camps  and  lines 
and  outworks  to  cover  the  roads  were,  and  also  that  it  was 
but  a  quarter  of  a  mile  across  a  wood-lot  to  the  road  which 
I  had  intended  to  retire  by,  which  ran  southeast  towards 
Spearfish  and  Hallam  Junction,  so  I  trundled  my  bikes 
over  to  it,  and  laid  them  in  a  column  formation  off  the 
road,  and  left  them  under  guard.  I  formed  my  command 
and  turned  some  fellows  out  of  some  rifle-pits,  which  were 
designed  to  protect  the  road,  and  it  was  growing  light. 
We  charged  into  the  town,  which  had  been  alarmed  by 
our  fire  directed  at  the  men  in  the  pits.  The  first  thing 
we  struck  was  a  long  line  of  temporary  camps,  of  what 
was  probably  a  regiment,  which  was  on  the  other  side  of  a 
railroad  embankment ;  but  they  were  in  a  panic  and  offered 
us  no  resistance,  while  we  advanced,  rapidly  firing,  and 
nearly  destroyed  them.  As  we  entered  the  town  I  took 
one  battalion  and  directed  it  against  the  car-shops,  which 
were  full  of  stores  and  troops :  these  men  we  also  nearly 
destroyed ;  and,  having  set  fire  to  the  shops,  I  entered  the 


234  PONY   TRACKS 

main  part  of  the  town,  and  as  we  advanced  I  had  it  also 
fired.  From  my  right  I  heard  heavy  firing,  and  knew  that 
the  other  command  had  encountered  opposition;  and  turn- 
ing to  my  right  I  struck  a  second  railroad  embankment, 
swarming  behind  with  men  who  were  standing  off  the  ad- 
vance of  the  other  battalion.  I  enfiladed  them,  and  they 
retired  precipitously.  From  the  net-work  of  railroad  em- 
bankments farther  up  the  flats  north  of  Colville  I  could 
see  masses  of  men  forming.  They  began  firing  at  me 
from  a  great  distance,  but  we  were  protected  by  the  rail- 
road fill  and  did  not  mind  it ;  while  our  sharpshooters, 
with  their  arms  of  longer  range,  annoyed  the  enemy  quite 
a  little,  and  kept  up  his  demoralization.  A  great  many 
men  had  gotten  away  from  the  town  when  I  had  attacked 
the  car-shops,  and  I  was  in  fear  lest  they  might  form  in 
my  rear  under  the  cover  of  the  burning  town,  so  I  had  my 
wounded  removed  rapidly  to  the  hill  where  my  bikes 
were  left,  and  then  retreated  rapidly  under  the  cover  of 
the  smoke.  The  enemy  were  left  so  completely  in  the  air 
that  they  advanced  slowly,  while  from  the  cover  of  the 
brush  on  the  upper  edge  of  a  field  I  held  them  in  play  for 
an  hour  while  my  wounded  got  a  good  start.  At  last  they 
seemed  to  form,  and  approached  to  my  right,  going  around 
the  smoke  of  the  burning  town,  and  as  they  outnumbered 
me  four  to  one,  they  would  speedily  have  outflanked  me. 
I  began  the  retreat  as  I  had  intended.  I  had  thirty-eight 
badly  wounded  men  who  had  to  be  carried  in  blankets, 
fifty-six  slightly  wounded  who  would  be  trundled  on  bi- 
cycles, and  had  left  eighteen  dead  on  the  field." 

"  I  say,  colonel,  how  do  you  remove  wounded  men  on 
bicycles?"  asked  some  one. 

"  It  is  simple  when  you  see  it,  but  rather  difficult  to  ex- 
plain. If  you  will  come  down  some  day  I  will  be  glad  to 
show  you  a  wounded  drill,  and  then  you  can  see  for  your- 


THE    COLONEL   OF  THE    FIRST    CYCLE    INFANTRY    235 

self.  By  cutting  sticks  and  tying  a  blanket  or  shelter- 
tent  a  desperately  wounded  man  can  be  laid  prone  be- 
tween two  bicycles,  or  if  slightly  hurt  he  can  be  trundled 
or  even  ridden  double  with  a  comrade,  while  one  man  can 
move  two  and  even  three  bicycles.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  the 
bike  is  a  great  contrivance  once  you  come  to  under- 
stand it,"  proceeded  the  Colonel  of  Cycle  Infantry. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  fought  those  fellows  a  little  hard- 
er, but  I  was  sixty  miles  inside  of  their  lines,  and  I  knew 
that  to  prolong  the  affair  would  mean  that  they  would 
be  heavily  reinforced,  and  besides  this  was  my  first  expe- 
dition. I  had  already  destroyed  the  bigger  half  of  the 
enemy  and  burned  the  town,  and  I  did  not  apprehend  a 
vigorous  pursuit.  What  to  do  with  my  wounded  was  now 
on  my  mind.  The  country  to  the  east  of  North  Colville 
is  very  broken,  wild,  and  sparsely  inhabited.  It  had  be- 
come necessary  to  abandon  my  wounded.  I  selected  a 
point  over  twelve  miles  from  our  battle-ground,  far  back 
from  the  unfrequented  road,  in  a  very  wild  spot  in  the 
hills,  and  left  every  man  not  able  to  travel  there,  with  all 
our  rations  and  two  medical  officers,  with  ten  men  as  a 
detail  for  the  camp.  My  trail  of  course  continued,  and 
they  were  never  suspected.  Coming  to  the  valley  of  the 
Spearfish  I  halted  and  slept  my  command  until  sundown, 
and  then  started  for  our  lines.  On  the  way  I  rode  into 
and  demoralized  a  half-dozen  bands  of  armed  insurgents, 
and  struck  our  lines  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"  What  became  of  your  wounded  up  there,  colonel?" 
asked  the  medical  officer  with  the  long  pipe. 

"The  evening  following  Captain  Barhandle  with  fifty 
men  started  and  made  a  successful  march  to  their  relief, 
and  left  two  more  medical  officers  and  a  lot  of  medical  stores 
and  rations,  and  came  back  three  days  after.  The  camp 
was  never  discovered,  and  was  relieved  when  the  general 


236  PONY   TRACKS 

here  made  his  first  expedition  into  Wood  County.  They 
had  protected  themselves  from  prowlers  by  waylaying  the 
roads,  and  had  a  dozen  prisoners  in  camp,  together  with 
a  half-dozen  milch  cows.  My  bike  men  are  excellent 
foragers,  since  they  have  been  so  much  on  outpost  duty." 

"  Suppose,  Colonel  Pedal,  you  were  forced  to  abandon 
your  bicycles,  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"  We  had  a  detachment  on  a  scout  the  other  day  who 
were  pressed  into  some  bad  country  and  had  to  abandon 
their  machines,  which  they  did  by  sinking  them  in  Dead 
Creek,  and  the  next  day  we  went  out  and  recovered  them. 
If  it  is  desired  to  utterly  destroy  them,  it  can  be  done  in 
an  instant  by  stepping  on  the  wheel  and  '  buckling  it,  or 
if  you  remove  the  chain,  it  is  useless  to  any  one  but  your- 
self," explained  the  colonel. 

"  Now,  colonel,  do  you  consider  that  you  can  move 
your  men  successfully  in  a  hilly  or  mountainous  country?" 
inquired  Ladigo. 

"  In  all  candor,  no — not  to  a  good  advantage.  I  can 
march  uphill  as  fast  as  infantry,  and  go  down  at  limited- 
express  speed ;  but  I  really  want  a  rather  flat  country 
with  lots  of  roads.  I  am  not  particular  as  to  the  quality 
of  the  roads,  so  there  are  enough  of  them.  I  can  move 
through  snow  which  has  been  tracked  down  by  teams; 
I  can  fly  on  the  ice ;  and  when  it  is  muddy  there  is  always 
an  inch  or  so  beside  the  road  which  is  not  muddy,  and 
that  is  enough  for  me.  A  favorable  place  for  a  bicycle  is 
along  a  railroad  track — going  in  the  centre  or  at  one  side. 
When  suddenly  attacked,  my  men  can  get  out  of  the  road 
like  a  covey  of  quail,  and  a  bicycle  can  be  trundled  across 
the  worst  possible  country  as  fast  as  a  man  can  travel,  for 
you  see  all  the  weight  of  the  man's  gun  and  pack  are  on 
the  wheel,  which  runs  without  any  appreciable  resistance, 
and  all   bike  men  know  how  to  throw  a  bicycle  over  a 


THE    COLONEL   OF   THE    FIRST   CYCLE    INFANTRY     237 

fence  with  ease,  and  my  average  march  is  eighty  miles 
a  day.  Ladigo,  remember — eighty  miles  a  day.  No  kind 
of  roads,  no  conditions  of  weather,  or  anything  but  su- 
perior force  can  stop  my  command  for  an  instant,  sir;" 
and  the  colonel  of  cavalry  rose  and  added,  "  Colonel  Pedal3 
will  you  have  a  drink  with  me  ?" 


A   MERRY    CHRISTMAS    IN   A   SIBLEY   TEPEE 

"  Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  we  die." 
Not  a  good  excuse,  but  it  has  been  sufficient  on  many  oc- 
casions to  be  true.  The  soldier  on  campaign  passes  life 
easily.  He  holds  it  in  no  strong  grip,  and  the  Merry 
Christmas  evening  is  as  liable  to  be  spent  in  the  saddle  in 
fierce  contact  with  the  blizzard  as  in  his  cosey  tepee  with 
his  comrades  and  his  scant  cheer.  The  jug  containing 
the  spirits  of  the  occasion  may  have  been  gotten  from  a 
town  fifty  miles  away  on  the  railroad.  It  is  certainly  not 
the  distillation  of  the  summer  sunlight,  and  is  probably 
"  tough  "  enough  stuff  to  mingle  naturally  with  its  sur- 
roundings ;  but  if  one  "  drinks  no  more  than  a  sponge  "  he 
may  not  have  the  jaded,  retrospective  feeling  and  the 
moral  mending  on  the  day  to  come.  To  sit  on  a  camp 
chest,  and  to  try  and  forget  that  the  soldier's  quart  cup  is 
not  filled  with  best  in  the  market,  and  then  to  enter  into 
the  full  appreciation  of  the  picturesque  occasion,  is  to 
forget  that  long  marches,  "  bull  meat,"  and  sleepless, 
freezing  nights  are  in  the  background.  Pleasant  hours  sit 
so  nicely  in  their  complemental  surrounding  of  hard  ones, 
since  everything  in  the  world  is  relative.  As  to  the  eating 
in  a  cavalry  camp  on  campaign,  it  is  not  overdone,  for 
beans  and  coffee  and  bacon  and  bacon  and  coffee  and 
beans  come  round  with  sufficient  regularity  to  forestall 
all  gormandizing.     The   drinking   is   not   the  prominent 


A   MERRY   CHRISTMAS   IN   A   SIBLEY   TEPEE  241 

feature  either,  but  helps  to  soften  the  asperities  of  a  Da- 
kota blizzard  which  is  raging  on  the  other  side  of  the 
"  ducking." 

The  Sibley  tent  weaves  and  moans  and  tugs  frantically 
at  its  pegs.  The  Sibley  stove  sighs  like  a  furnace  while  the 
cruel  wind  seeks  out  the  holes  and  crevices.  The  soldiers 
sit  in  their  camp  drawing-room  buttoned  up  to  the  chin  in 
their  big  canvas  overcoats,  and  the  muskrat  caps  are  not 
removed.  The  freemasonry  of  the  army  makes  strong 
friendships,  and  soldiers  are  all  good  fellows,  that  being  a 
part  of  their  business.  There  are  just  enough  exceptions 
to  prove  the  rule.  The  cold,  bloodless,  compound-interest 
snarler  is  not  in  the  army,  and  if  he  were  he  would  be  as 
cheerless  on  a  damp  evening  as  he  would  in  a  fight.  One 
man  is  from  Arizona,  another  from  Washington,  and  the 
rest  from  the  other  corners  of  Uncle  Sam's  tract  of  land. 
They  have  met  before,  and  memory  after  memory  comes 
up  with  its  laughter  and  pathos  of  the  old  campaigns. 
One  by  one  the  "shoulder-straps"  crawl  in  through  the 
hole  in  the  tepee.  And,  mind  you,  they  do  not  walk  in 
like  a  stage  hero,  with  dash  and  abandon  and  head  in  the 
air ;  they  prostrate  themselves  like  a  Turk  at  prayer,  and 
come  crawling.  If  they  raise  the  flap  ever  so  much,  and 
bring  company  of  the  Dakota  winds,  they  are  met  with  a 
howl  of  protests.  After  gaining  erectness,  they  brush  the 
snow  from  their  clothes,  borrow  a  tin  cup,  and  say, 
"How!  how!" 

The  chief  of  scouts  buttons  up  to  his  eyes,  and  must  go 
look  after  his  "  Inguns"  ;  the  officer  of  the  day  comes  in 
to  make  his  papers,  and  if  he  keeps  the  flying  jokes  out 
of  his  statistics,  he  does  well  enough.  The  second  lieu- 
tenant, fresh  from  West  Point,  doesn't  hesitate  to  address 
the  grizzled  colonel  of  twenty  campaigns — nay,  he  may 
even  deign  to  advise  him  on  the  art  of  war ;  but  that  is 
16 


242  PONY    TRACKS 

unsatisfactory  —  the  advising  of  colonels  —  because  the 
colonel's  advice  to  the  sub  has  always  to  be  acted  upon, 
whereas  the  sub's  advice  to  the  colonel  is  mostly  nullified 
by  the  great  powers  of  discretion  which  are  vested  in  the 
superior  rank.  The  life-study  of  a  sub  should  be  to  ap- 
pear like  the  cuckoo -bird  in  a  German  clock — at  the 
proper  moment ;  and  when  he  appears  at  wrong  intervals, 
he  is  repaired.  Colonels  are  terrible  creatures,  with  vast 
powers  for  promoting  happiness  or  inflicting  misery.  If 
he  will  lend  the  moderating  influence  of  his  presence,  it  is 
well ;  but  if  he  sends  his  man  around  to  "  present  his  com- 
pliments, and  say  that  the  d row  will  immediately 

cease,"  his  wishes  if  not  his  personality  are  generally  re- 
spected. 

It  is  never  a  late  evening,  such  a  one  as  this;  it's  just  a 
few  stolen  moments  from  the  "  demnition  grind."  The 
last  arrival  may  be  a  youngster  just  in  from  patrol,  who 
explains  that  he  just  "  cut  the  trail  of  forty  or  fifty  Sioux 
five  miles  below,  on  the  crossing  of  the  White  River;" 
and  you  may  hear  the  bugle,  and  the  bugle  may  blow 
quick  and  often,  and  if  the  bugle  does  mingle  its  notes 
with  the  howling  of  the  blizzard,  you  will  discover  that 
the  occasion  is  not  one  of  merriment.  But  let  us  hope 
that  it  will  not  blow. 

The  toasts  go  around,  and  you  use  your  tobacco  in  a 
miserly  way,  because  you  can't  get  any  more,  since  only 
to-day  you  have  offered  a  dollar  for  a  small  plug  to  a 
trooper,  and  he  had  refused  to  negotiate,  although  he  had 
pared  off  a  small  piece  as  a  gift,  and  intimated  that  gen- 
erosity could  go  no  further.  Then  you  go  to  your  tepee, 
half  a  mile  down  the  creek  at  the  scout  camp,  and  you 
stumble  through  the  snow-laden  willows  and  face  the  cut- 
ting blast,  while  the  clash  and  "  Halt !"  of  the  sentinel 
stop  you  here  and  there.     You   pull   off  your  boots  and 


A    MERRY   CHRISTMAS    IN    A   SIBLEY    TEPEE         243 

crawl  into  your  blankets  quickly  before  the  infernal  Sibley 
stove  gives  its  sigh  as  the  last  departing  spark  goes  up  the 
chimney,  and  leaves  the  winds  and  drifting  snows  to  bel- 
low and  scream  over  the  wild  wastes. 


BEAR-CHASING   IN   THE   ROCKY   MOUNTAINS 

Mr.  Montague  Stevens  is  an  Englishman  who  for 
the  most  part  attends  to  the  rounding-up  of  his  cattle, 
which  are  scattered  over  the  northwestern  quarter  of 
New  Mexico ;  but  he  does  not  let  that  interfere  with  the 
time  which  all  Englishmen  set  duly  apart  to  be  devoted 
to  sport.  His  door-yard  is  some  hundreds  of  miles  of 
mountain  wilderness  and  desolate  mesa — a  more  gorgeous 
preserve  than  any  king  ever  dreamed  of  possessing  for 
his  pleasure — with  its  plains  dotted  with  antelope,  and 
its  mountains  filled  with  cougar,  deer,  bear,  and  wild 
turkeys.  The  white  race  has  given  up  the  contest  with 
nature  in  those  parts,  and  it  has  reverted  to  the  bear, 
the  Navajo,  and  Mr.  Stevens — land-grants,  corrals,  cabins, 
brands,  and  all  else. 

General  Miles  was  conducting  a  military  observation  of 
the  country,  which  is  bound  to  be  the  scene  of  any  war 
which  the  Apaches  or  Navajos  may  make ;  and  after  a 
very  long  day's  march,  during  which  we  had  found  but 
one  water,  and  that  was  a  pool  of  rain-water,  stirred  into 
mud  and  full  of  alkali,  where  we  had  to  let  our  horses 
into  the  muddy  stuff  at  the  ends  of  our  lariats,  we  had  at 
last  found  a  little  rivulet  and  some  green  grass.  The 
coffee -pot  bubbled  and  the  frying-pan  hissed,  while  I 
smoked  and  listened  to  a  big  escort-wagon  driver,  who 
was  repairing  his  lash,  and  saying,  softly,  "  Been  drivin'  a 
bloody  lot  of  burros   for  thirty  years,  and   don't  know 


BEAR-CHASING   IN    THE    ROCKY    MOUNTAINS         247 

enough  to  keep  a  whip  out  of  a  wheel ;  guess  I'll  go  to 
jack-punchin',  'nen  I  kin  use  a  dry  club." 

Far  down  the  valley  a  little  cloud  of  dust  gleamed  up 
against  the  gray  of  the  mountains,  and  presently  the  tire- 
less stride  of  a  pony  shone  darkly  in  its  luminous  midst. 
Nearer  and  nearer  it  grew — the  flying  tail,  the  regular 
beating  of  the  hoofs,  the  swaying  figure  of  the  rider,  and 
the  left  sleeve  of  the  horseman's  coat  ^oping  purpose- 
lessly about.  He  crossed  the  brook  with  a  splash,  trotted, 
and,  with  a  jerk,  pulled  up  in  our  midst.  Mr.  Stevens  is 
a  tall,  thin  young  man,  very  much  bronzed,  and  with  the 
set,  serious  face  of  an  Englishman.  He  wore  corduroy 
clothes,  and  let  himself  out  of  his  saddle  with  one  hand, 
which  he  also  presented  in  greeting,  the  other  having 
been  sacrificed  to  his  own  shot-gun  on  some  previous  oc- 
casion. Mr.  Stevens  brought  with  him  an  enthusiasm 
for  bear  which  speedily  enveloped  the  senses  of  our 
party,  and  even  crowded  out  from  the  mind  of  General 
Miles  the  nobler  game  which  he  had  affected  for  thirty 
years. 

The  steady  cultivation  of  one  subject  for  some  days  is 
bound  to  develop  a  great  deal  of  information,  and  it  is 
with  difficulty  that  I  refrain  from  herein  setting  down 
facts  which  can  doubtless  be  found  in  any  good  ency- 
clopaedia of  natural  history;  but  the  men  in  the  moun- 
tains never  depart  from  the  consideration  of  that  and  one 
other  subject,  which  is  brands,  and  have  reached  some 
strange  conclusions  —  the  strangest  being  that  the  true 
Rocky  Mountain  grizzly  is  only  seen  once  in  a  man's  life- 
time, and  that  the  biggest  one  they  ever  heard  of  leaves 
his  tracks  in  this  district,  and  costs  Mr.  Stevens,  roughly 
estimating,  about  $416  a  year  to  support,  since  that  about 
covers  the  cattle  he  kills. 

At  break  of  day  the  officers,  cavalrymen,  escort -wag- 


248  PONY   TRACKS 

ons,  and  pack-train  toiled  up  the  Cafion  Largo  to  Mr. 
Stevens's  camp,  which  was  reached  in  good  time,  and 
consisted  of  a  regular  ranchman's  grub -wagon,  a  great 
many  more  dogs  of  more  varieties  than  I  could  possibly 
count,  a  big  Texan,  who  was  cook,  and  a  professional 
bear-hunter  by  the  name  of  Cooper,  who  had  recently  de- 
parted from  his  wonted  game  for  a  larger  kind,  with  the 
result  that,  after  the  final  deal,  a  companion  had  passed  a 
.45  through  Mr.  Cooper's  face  and  filled  it  with  powder, 
and  brought  him  nigh  unto  death,  so  that  even  now  Mr. 
Cooper's  head  was  swathed  in  bandages,  and  his  mind 
piled  with  regrets  that  he  had  on  at  the  time  an  overcoat, 
which  prevented  him  from  drawing  his  gun  with  his  usual 
precision.  Our  introduction  to  the  outfit  was  ushered  in 
by  a  most  magnificent  free-for-all  dog-fight ;  and  when  we 
had  carefully  torn  the  snarling,  yelling,  biting  mass  apart 
by  the  hind  -  legs  and  staked  them  out  to  surrounding 
trees,  we  had  time  to  watch  Mr.  Cooper  draw  diagrams 
of  bear-paws  in  the  dust  with  a  stick.  These  tracks  he 
had  just  discovered  up  the  Cafion  Largo,  and  he  averred 
that  the  bear  was  a  grizzly,  and  weighed -1800  pounds, 
and  that  he  had  been  there  two  years,  and  that  all  the 
boys  had  hunted  him,  but  that  he  was  a  sad  old  rascal. 

After  lunch  we  pulled  on  up  the  cafion  and  camped. 
The  tents  were  pitched  and  the  cooks  busy,  when  I 
noticed  three  cowboys  down  the  stream  and  across  the 
cafion,  who  were  alternately  leading  their  horses  and 
stooping  down  in  earnest  consultation  over  some  tracks 
on  the  ground.  We  walked  over  to  them.  There  were 
Mr.  Cooper,  whose  only  visible  eye  rolled  ominously,  and 
Dan,  the  S.  U.  foreman,  with  another  puncher. 

"  He's  usin'  here,"  said  Cooper.  "  That's  his  track,  and 
there's  his  work,"  pointing  up  the  hill-side,  where  lay  the 
body  of  a  five -year- old  cow.     We  drew  near  her,  and 


BEAR-CHASING   IN   THE    ROCKY   MOUNTAINS 


249 


there  was  the  tale  of  a  mighty  struggle,  all  written  out 
more  eloquently  than  pen  can  do.  There  were  the  deep 
furrows  of  the  first  grapple  at  the  top  ;  there  was  the 
broad  trail  down  the  steep  hill  for  fifty  yards,  with  the 
stones  turned  over,  and  the  dust  marked  with  horn  and 
hoof  and  claw ;  and  there  was  the  stump  which  had  bro- 
ken the  roll  down  hill.  The  cow  had  her  neck  broken 
and  turned  under  her  body ;  her  shoulder  was  torn  from 
the  body,  her  leg  broken,  and  her  side  eaten  into;  and 
there  were  Bruin's  big  telltale  footprints,  rivalling  in  size 
a  Gladstone  bag,  as  he  had  made  his  way  down  to  the 
stream  to  quench  his  thirst  and  continue  up  the  cafton. 
The  cow  was  yet  warm — not  two  hours  dead. 


"DO   YOU   THINK   THIS    PONY   IS   GOING   TO   BUCK?' 


250  PONY   TRACKS 

"We  must  pull  out  of  here;  he  will  come  back  to- 
night," said  Cooper.  And  we  all  turned  to  with  a  will 
and  struck  the  tents,  while  the  cooks  threw  their  tins, 
bags,  and  boxes  into  the  wagons,  whereat  we  moved  off 
down  wind  for  three  miles,  up  a  spur  of  the  canon,  where 
we  again  camped.  We  stood  around  the  fires  and  al- 
lowed Mr.  Cooper  to  fill  our  minds  with  hope.  "  He'll 
shore  come  back ;  he's  usin'  here  ;  an'  cow  outfits — why, 
he  don't  consider  a  cow  outfit  nothin'.  He's  been  right 
on  top  of  cow  outfits  since  he's  been  in  these  parts,  and 
thet  two  years  gone  now,  when  he  begun  to  work  this 
yer  range,  and  do  the  work  you  see  done  yonder.  In  the 
mornin'  we'll  strike  his  trail,  and  if  we  can  git  to  him 
you'll  shore  see  a  bar-fight." 

We  turned  in,  and  during  the  night  I  was  awakened 
twice — once  by  a  most  terrific  baying  of  all  the  dogs,  who 
would  not  be  quieted,  and  later  by  a  fine  rain  beating  in 
my  face.  The  night  was  dark,  and  we  were  very  much 
afraid  the  rain  would  kill  the  scent.  We  were  up  long 
before  daylight,  and  drank  our  coffee  and  ate  our  meat, 
and  as  soon  as  "we  could  see  a  dog  a  hundred  yards," 
which  is  the  bear- hunter's  receipt,  we  moved  off  down 
the  creek.  We  found  that  the  cow  had  been  turned  over 
twice,  but  not  eaten — evidently  Bruin  had  his  suspicions. 
The  dogs  cut  his  trail  again  and  again.  He  had  run 
within  sight  of  our  camp,  had  wandered  across  the  valley 
hither  and  yon,  but  the  faithful  old  hounds  would  not 
"  go  away."  Dan  sat  on  his  pony  and  blew  his  old 
cow's  horn,  and  yelled:  "Hooick!  hooick !  get  down  on 
him.  Rocks;  hooick!  hooick!"  But  Rocks  could  not  get 
down  on  him,  and  then  we  knew  that  the  rain  had  killed 
the  scent.  We  circled  a  half-mile  out,  but  the  dogs  were 
still ;  and  then  we  followed  up  the  Canon  Largo  for  miles, 
and  into  the  big  mountain,  through  juniper  thickets  and 


DAN   AND    ROCKS 


over  malpais,  up  and  down  the  most  terrible  places,  for 
we  knew  that  the  bear's  bed-ground  is  always  up  in  the 
most  rugged  peaks,  where  the  rimrock  overhangs  in  ser- 
ried battlements,  tier  on  tier.     But  no  bear. 

Rocks,  the  forward  hound,  grew  weary  of  hunting  for 
things  which  were  not,  and  retired  to  the  rear  to  pay 
court  to  a  lady  friend  ;  and  Dan  had  to  rope  Rocks,  and 
with  some  irritation  he  started  his  pony,  and  Rocks 
kept  the  pace  by  dint  of  legging  it,  and  by  the  help  of  a 
tow  from  900  pounds  of  horse-flesh.  Poor  Rocks !  He 
understood  his  business;  but  in  consequence  of  not  be- 
ing able  to  explain  to  the  men  what  fools  they  were,  he 
suffered. 

The  hot  mid -day  sun  of  New  Mexico  soon  kills  the 
scent,  and  we  were  forced  to  give  over  for  the  day.  A 
cavalry  sergeant  shot  three  deer,  but  we,  in  our  su- 
perior purpose,  had  learned  to  despise  deer.  Later  I 
made  a  good  two-hundred -yard  centre  on  an  antelope, 
and  though  I  had  not  been  fortunate  enough  in  years  to 


252  PONY   TRACKS 

get  an  antelope,  the  whole  sensation  was  flat  in  view  of 
this  new  ambition. 

On  the  following  morning  we  went  again  to  our  dead 
cow,  but  nothing  except  the  jackals  had  been  at  the  bear's 
prey,  for  the  wily  old  fellow  had  evidently  scented  our 
camp,  and  concluded  that  we  were  not  a  cow  outfit,  where- 
at he  had  discreetly  "  pulled  his  freight." 

We  sat  on  our  horses  in  a  circle,  and  raised  our  voices. 
In  consideration  of  the  short  time  at  our  disposal,  we  con- 
cluded that  we  could  be  satisfied  with  taking  1800  pounds 
of  bear  on  the  instalment  plan.  The  first  instalment  was 
a  very  big  piece  of  meat,  but  was — I  am  going  to  confess 
— presented  to  us  in  the  nature  of  a  gift ;  but  the  whole 
thing  was  so  curious  I  will  go  into  it. 

We  hunted  for  two  days  without  success,  unless  I  in- 
clude deer  and  antelope ;  but  during  the  time  I  saw  two 
things  which  interested  me.  The  first  was  a  revelation  of 
the  perfect  understanding  which  a  mountain  cow-pony 
has  of  the  manner  in  which  to  negotiate  the  difficulties  of 
the  country  which  is  his  home. 

Dan,  the  foreman,  was  the  huntsman.  He  was  a  shrewd- 
eyed,  little,  square-built  man,  always  very  much  preoc- 
cupied with  the  matter  in  hand.  He  wore  a  sombrero 
modelled  into  much  character  by  weather  and  time,  a 
corduroy  coat,  and  those  enormous  New-Mexican  "  chaps," 
and  he  sounded  a  cow-horn  for  his  dogs,  and  alternately 
yelped  in  a  most  amusing  way.  So  odd  was  this  yelp  that 
it  caught  the  soldiers,  and  around  their  camp-fire  at  night 
you  could  hear  the  mimicking  shouts  of  "Oh,  Rocks! 
eh-h-h!  hooick !  get  down  on  him,  Rocks;  tohoot !  to- 
hoot !"  We  were  sitting  about  on  our  horses  in  a  little 
sienneca,  while  Dan  was  walking  about,  leading  his  pony 
and  looking  after  his  dogs. 

When  very  near  me  he  found  it  necessary  to  cross  an 


A  DANGEROUS   PLACE 


Uft 


OF  THE 

VER3,Ty 


BEAR-CHASING   IN    THE    ROCKY    MOUNTAINS         255 

arroyo  which  was  about  five  feet  deep  and  with  perfectly 
perpendicular  banks.  Without  hesitation  he  jumped 
down  into  it,  and  with  a  light  bound  his  pony  followed. 
At  the  opposite  side  Dan  put  up  his  arms  on  the  bank 
and  clawed  his  way  up,  and,  still  paying  no  attention  to 
his  pony,  he  continued  on.  Without  faltering  in  the 
least,  the  little  horse  put  his  fore-feet  on  the  bank,  clawed 
at  it  once,  twice,  jumped,  scratched,  clawed,  and,  for  all 
the  world  like  a  cat  getting  into  the  fork  of  a  tree,  he 
was  on  the  bank  and  following  Dan. 

Later  in  the  day,  when  going  to  our  camp,  we  followed 
one  of  Dan's  short-cuts  through  the  mountains,  and  the 
cowboys  on  their  mountain  ponies  rode  over  a  place 
which  made  the  breath  come  short  to.  the  officers  and 
men  behind  ;  not  that  they  could  not  cross  themselves, 
being  on  foot,  but  that  the  cavalry  horses  could  they  had 
their  solemn  doubts,  and  no  one  but  an  evil  brute  desires 
to  lead  a  game  animal  where  he  may  lose  his  life.  Not 
being  a  geologist,  I  will  have  to  say  it  was  a  blue  clay 
in  process  of  rock  formation,  and  in  wet  times  held  a 
mountain  torrent.  The  slope  was  quite  seventy  degrees. 
The  approach  was  loose  dirt  and  malpais,  which  ran  off 
down  the  gulch  in  small  avalanches  under  our  feet. 
While  crossing,  the  horses  literally  stood  on  their  toes  to 
claw  out  a  footing.  A  slip  would  have  sent  them,  belly 
up,  down  the  toboggan-slide,  with  a  drop  into  an  unknown 
depth  at  the  end.  I  had  often  heard  the  cavalry  axiom 
"that  a  horse  can  go  anywhere  a  man  can  if  the  man  will 
not  use  his  hands,"  and  a  little  recruit  murmured  it  to 
reassure  himself.  I  passed,  with  the  loss  of  a  quarter  of  the 
skin  on  my  left  hand,  and  later  asked  a  quaint  old  veteran 
of  four  enlistments  if  he  thought  it  was  a  bad  place,  and 
he  said,  "  It's  lizards,  not  harses,  what  ought  to  go  thar." 

Riding  over  the  rough  mountains  all  day  sows  poppy- 


256  PONY   TRACKS 

seeds  in  a  man's  head,  and  when  the  big  medical  officer 
opens  your  tent-flaps  in  the  morning,  and  fills  the  walls 
with  his  roars  to  "Get  up!  it's  four  o'clock,"  it  is  with 
groans  that  you  obey.  You  also  forego  washing,  because 
you  are  nearly  frozen  stiff,  and  you  go  out  and  stand 
around  the  fire  with  your  companions,  who  are  all  cheer- 
fully miserable  as  they  shiver  and  chaff  each  other.  It 
seems  we  do  not  live  this  life  on  a  cold,  calculating 
plane  of  existence,  but  on  different  lines,  the  variation  of 
which  is  the  chief  delight  of  the  discriminating,  and  I 
must  record  a  distinct  pleasure  in  elbowing  fellows  around 
a  camp-fire  when  it  is  dark  and  cold  and  wet,  and  when  you 
know  that  they  are  oftener  in  bed  than  out  of  it  at  such 
hours.  You  drink  your  quart  of  coffee,  eat  your  slice  of 
venison,  and  then  regard  your  horse  with  some  trepida- 
tion, since  he  is  all  of  a  tremble,  has  a  hump  on  his  back, 
and  is  evidently  of  a  mind  to  "pitch." 

The  eastern  sky  grows  pale,  and  the  irrepressible  Dan 
begins  to  "  honk  "  on  his  horn,  and  the  cavalcade  moves 
off  through  the  grease-wood,  which  sticks  up  thickly  from 
the  ground  like  millions  of  Omaha  war-bonnets. 

The  advance  consists  of  six  or  eight  big  blood-hounds, 
which  range  out  in  front,  with  Dan  and  Mr.  Cooper  to 
blow  the  horn,  look  out  for  "bear  sign,"  and  to  swear 
gently  but  firmly  when  the  younger  dogs  take  recent 
deer  trails  under  consideration.  Three  hundred  yards 
behind  come  Scotch  stag-hounds,  a  big  yellow  mastiff,  fox- 
terriers,  and  one  or  two  dogs  which  would  not  classify 
in  a  bench-show,  and  over  these  Mr.  Stevens  holds  a 
guiding  hand,  while  in  a  disordered  band  come  General 
Miles,  his  son,  three  army  officers,  myself,  and  seven  or- 
derlies of  the  Second  Cavalry.  All  this  made  a  picture, 
but,  like  all  Western  canvases,  too  big  for  a  frame.  The 
sun  broke  in  a  golden  flash  over  the  hills,  and  streaked  the 


*    aL    . 


BEAR-CHASING    IN    THE   ROCKY    MOUNTAINS         259 

plain  with  gold  and  gray  greens.  The  spirit  of  the  thing 
is  not  hunting  but  the  chase  of  the  bear,  taking  one's 
mind  back  to  the  buffalo,  or  the  nobles  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  who  made  their  "  image  of  war  "  with  bigger  game 
than  red  foxes. 

Leaving  the  plain  we  wound  up  a  dry  creek,  and  noted 
that  the  small  oaks  had  been  bitten  and  clawed  down  by 
bear  to  get  at  the  acorns.  The  hounds  gave  tongue,  but 
could  not  get  away  until  we  had  come  to  a  small  glade  in 
the  forest,  where  they  grew  wildly  excited.  Mr.  Cooper 
here  showed  us  a  very  large  bear  track,  and  also  a  smaller 
one,  with  those  of  two  cubs  by  its  side.  With  a  wild  burst 
the  dogs  went  away  up  a  canon,  the  blood  went  into  our 
heads,  and  our  heels  into  the  horses,  and  a  desperate 
scramble  began.  It  is  the  sensation  we  have  travelled  so 
long  to  feel.  Dan  and  Cooper  sailed  off  through  the 
brush  and  over  the  stones  like  two  old  crows,  with  their 
coat-tails  flapping  like  wings.  We  follow  at  a  gallop  in 
single  file  up  the  narrow,  dry  watercourse.  The  creek 
ends,  and  we  take  to  the  steep  hill-sides,  while  the  loose 
stones  rattle  from  under  the  flying  hoofs.  The  rains 
have  cut  deep  furrows  on  their  way  to  the  bed  of  the 
canon,  and  your  horse  scratches  and  scrambles  for  a  foot- 
hold. A  low,  gnarled  branch  bangs  you  across  the  face, 
and  then  your  breath  fairly  stops  as  you  see  a  horse  go 
into  the  air  and  disappear  over  a  big  log,  fallen  down  a 
hill  of  seventy  degrees'  slope.  The  "take -off  and  land- 
ing" is  yielding  dust,  but  the  blood  in  your  head  puts  the 
spur  in  your  horse,  and  over  you  go.  If  you  miss,  it  is  a 
200 -foot  roll,  with  a  1200 -pound  horse  on  top  of  you. 
But  the  pace  soon  tells,  and  you  see  nothing  but  good 
honest  climbing  ahead  of  you.  The  trail  of  the  yelling 
dogs  goes  straight  up,  amid  scraggly  cedar  and  juniper, 
with  loose  malpais  underfoot.     We  arrive  at  the  top  only 


«* 


TIMBER-TOPPING    IN    THE    ROCKIES 


to  see  Cooper  and  Dan  disappear  over  a  precipice  after 
the  dogs,  but  here  we  stop.  Bears  always  seek  the  very 
highest  peaks,  and  it  is  better  to  be  there  before  them  if 
possible.  A  grizzly  can  run  downhill  quicker  than  a 
horse,  and  all  hunters  try  to  get  above  them,  since  if 
they  are  big  and  fat  they  climb  slowly ;  besides,  the 
mountain-tops  are  more  or  less  flat  and  devoid  of  under- 


BEAR-CHASING    IN    THE    ROCKY    MOUNTAINS         261 

brush,  which  makes  good  running  for  a  horse.  We  scat- 
ter out  along  the  cordon  of  the  range.  The  bag  doing 
on  the  rimrock  of  the  mountain-tops,  where  the  bear  tries 
to  throw  off  the  dogs,  makes  it  quite  impossible  to  follow 
them  at  speed,  so  that  you  must  separate  and  take  your 
chances  of  heading  the  chase. 

I  selected  Captain  Mickler — the  immaculate,  the  polo- 
player,  the  epitome  of  staff  form,  the  trappiest  trooper  in 
the  Dandy  Fifth" — and,  together  with  two  orderlies,  we 
started.  Mickler  was  mounted  on  a  cow- pony,  which 
measured  one  chain  three  links  from  muzzle  to  coupling. 
Mickler  had  on  English  riding- togs  —  this  is  not  saying 
that  the  pony  could  not  run,  or  that  Mickler  was  not 
humorous.  But  it  was  no  new  experience  for  him,  this 
pulling  a  pony  and  coaxing  him  to  attempt  breakneck 
experiments,  for  he  told  me  casually  that  he  had  led  bare- 
footed cavalrymen  over  these  hills  in  pursuit  of  Apaches 
at  a  date  in  history  when  I  was  carefully  conjugating 
Latin  verbs. 

We  were  making  our  way  down  a  bad  formation  when 
we  heard  the  dogs,  and  presently  three  shots.  A  strayed 
cavalry  orderly  had,  much  to  his  disturbance  of  mind, 
beheld  a  big  silver-tip  bearing  down  on  him,  jaws  skinned, 
ears  back,  and  red  -  eyed,  and  he  had  promptly  removed 
himself  to  a  proper  distance,  where  he  dismounted.  The 
bear  and  dogs  .  were  much  exhausted,  but  the  dogs 
swarmed  around  the  bear,  thus  preventing  a  shot.  But 
Bruin  stopped  at  intervals  to  fight  the  dogs,  and  the  sol- 
dier fired,  but  without  effect.  If  men  do  not  come  up 
with  the  dogs  in  order  to  encourage  them,  many  will 
draw  off,  since  the  work  of  chasing  and  fighting  a  bear 
without  water  for  hours  is  very  trying.  Only  hounds 
can  be  depended  on,  as  the  tongues  of  other  dogs  thick- 
en, and  they  soon  droop  when  long  without  water.    Some 


262  PONY   TRACKS 

of  the  dogs  may  have  followed  the  bear  with  cubs,  but 
if  they  did  we  never  heard  of  them.  The  one  now  run- 
ning was  an  enormous  silver -tip,  and  could  not  "  tree." 
The  shots  of  the  trooper  diverted  the  bear,  which  now 
took  off  down  a  deep  canon  next  to  the  one  we  were  in, 
and  presently  we  heard  him  no  more.  After  an  hour's 
weary  travelling  down  the  winding  way  we  came  out  on 
the  plain,  and  found  a  small  cow  outfit  belonging  to  Mr. 
Stevens,  and  under  a  tree  lay  our  dead  silver-tip,  while  a 
half-dozen  punchers  squatted  about  it.  It  appeared  that 
three  of  them  had  been  working  up  in  the  foot-hills  when 
they  heard  the  dogs,  and  shortly  discovered  the  bear. 
Having  no  guns,  and  being  on  fairly  good  ground,  they 
coiled  their  riatas  and  prepared  to  do  battle. 

The  silver -tip  was  badly  blown,  and  the  three  dogs 
which  had  stayed  with  him* were  so  tired  that  they  sat  up 
at  a  respectful  distance  and  panted  and  lolled.  The  first 
rope  went  over  Bruin's  head  and  one  paw.  There  lies  the 
danger.  But  instantly  number  two  flew  straight  to  the 
mark,  and  the  ponies  surged,  while  Bruin  stretched  out 
with  a  roar.  A  third  rope  got  his  other  hind-leg,  and  the 
puncher  dismounted  and  tied  it  to  a  tree.  The  roaring, 
biting,  clawing  mass  of  hair  was  practically  helpless,  but 
to  kill  him  was  an  undertaking. 

"  Why  didn't  you  brand  him  and  turn  him  loose?"  I 
asked  of  the  cowboy. 

"Well,"  said  the  puncher,  in  his  Texan  drawl,  "we 
could  have  branded  him  all  right,  but  we  might  have 
needed  some  help  in  turning  him  loose." 

They  pelted  him  with  malpais,  and  finally  stuck  a 
knife  into  a  vital  part,  and  then,  loading  him  on  a  pony, 
they  brought  him  in.  It  was  a  daring  performance,  but 
was  regarded  by  the  "  punchers"  as  a  great  joke. 

Mickler  and  I  rode  into  camp,  thinking  on  the  savagery 


■Jlfjffl 


BEAR-CHASING   IN   THE   ROCKY   MOUNTAINS        265 

of  man.  One  never  heard  of  a  bear  which  travelled  all 
the  way  from  New  Mexico  to  Chicago  to  kill  a  man,  and 
yet  a  man  will  go  3000  miles  to  kill  a  bear — not  for  love 
or  fear  or  hate  or  meat;  for  what,  then?  But  Mickler 
and  I  had  not  killed  a  bear,  so  we  were  easy. 

One  by  one  the  tired  hunters  and  dogs  struggled  into 
camp  all  disappointed,  except  the  dogs,  which  could  not 
tell  us  what  had  befallen  them  since  morning.  The  day 
following  the  dogs  started  a  big  black  bear,  which  made  a 
good  run  up  a  bad  place  in  the  hills,  but  with  the  hunters 
scrambling  after  in  full  cry.  The  bear  treed  for  the  dogs, 
but  on  sighting  the  horsemen  he  threw  himself  backward 
from  the  trunk  and  fell  fifteen  feet  among  the  dogs, 
which  latter  piled  into  him  en  masse,  the  little  fox-ter- 
riers being  particularly  aggressive.  It  was  a  tremendous 
shake-up  of  black  hair  and  pups  of  all  colors;  but  the 
pace  was  too  fast  for  Bruin,  and  he  sought  a  new  tree. 
One  little  foxie  had  been  rolled  over,  and  had  quite  a  job 
getting  his  bellows  mended.  This  time  the  bear  sat  on  a 
limb  very  high  up,  and  General  Miles  put  a  .50-calibre  ball 
through  his  brain,  which  brought  him  down  with  a  tre- 
mendous thump,  when  the  pups  again  flew  into  him,  and 
"  wooled  him,"  as  the  cowboys  put  it,  to  their  hearts' 
content. 

While  our  bear-hunting  is  not  the  thing  we  are  most 
proud  of,  yet  the  method  is  the  most  sportsmanlike,  since 
nothing  but  the  most  desperate  riding  will  bring  one  up 
with  the  bear  in  the  awful  country  which  they  affect. 
The  anticipation  of  having  a  big  silver-tip  assume  the  ag- 
gressive at  any  moment  is  inspiriting.  Indeed,  they  often 
do ;  for  only  shortly  before  one  had  sprung  from  a  thicket 
on  to  the  hind-quarters  of  one  of  Mr.  Stevens's  cowboy's 
ponies,  and  it  was  only  by  the  most  desperate  work  on  the 
part  of  his  companion,  who  rode  up  close  and  shot  the 


266 


PONY   TRACKS 


bear  with  his  six-shooter,  that  saved  his  comrade's  life. 
The  horse  was  killed.  When  one  thinks  of  the  enormous 
strength  of  the  silver-tip,  which  can  overpower  the  mighti- 
est steer,  and  bend  and  break  its  neck  or  tear  its  shoulder 


THE    FINALE 


from  its  body  at  a  stroke,  one  is  able  to  say,  "  Do  not 
hunt  a  bear  unless  thy  skin  is  not  dear  to  thee."  Then 
the  dogs  must  be  especially  trained  to  run  bear,  since  the 
country  abounds  in  deer,  and  it  is  difficult  to  train  dogs 
to  ignore  their   sight  and  scent.     The  cowboys  account 


BEAR-CHASING  IN   THE  ROCKY   MOUNTAINS        269 

for  the  number  of  the  bear  in  their  country  from  the 
fact  that  it  is  the  old  Apache  and  Navajo  range,  and  the 
incoherent  mind  of  the  savage  was  impressed  with  the 
rugged  mass  of  fur  and  the  grinning  jaws  of  the  monster 
which  crossed  his  path,  and  he  was  awed  by  the  dangers 
of  the  encounter — arrow  against  claw.  He  came  to  re- 
spect the  apparition,  and  he  did  not  know  that  life  is  only 
sacred  when  in  the  image  of  the  Creator.  He  did  not 
discriminate  as  to  the  value  of  life,  but  with  his  respect 
for  death  there  grew  the  speculation,  which  to  him  be- 
came a  truth,  that  the  fearsome  beast  was  of  the  other 
world,  and  bore  the  lost  souls  of  the  tribe.  He  was  a 
vampire ;  he  was  sacred,     O  Bear ! 


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